


Invisible Wings

by conchepcion



Series: Wings [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1960s, Alternate Universe - Professors, Angst and Fluff and Smut, F/M, Professor!Lock, Shameless Smut, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-21
Updated: 2014-03-25
Packaged: 2018-01-02 06:44:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 13
Words: 68,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1053720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/conchepcion/pseuds/conchepcion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The year is 1963; a new Professor proves to be a furious distraction to all, students and professors alike. One exception being Miss Hooper who intends not to be dreamy about Professor Holmes. Unfortunately enough one cannot always escape ones faith.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This story is already completed, but it is being edited/betaed. Yes, it is the long awaited Professor-fic that started due to tumblr, and that people wanted more of from the teases in 'Seven'. I would like to thank AussieMaelstrom for basically holding my hand throughout the whole thing, and coming with encouraging speeches amidst my turmoil of 'Is there too much smut?'
> 
> The answer is always 'no'.

**Prologue**

  
_Your soul is a chosen landscape_   
_Where charming masqueraders and bergamaskers go_   
_Playing the lute and dancing and almost_   
_Sad beneath their fanciful disguises._   


  
_All sing in a minor key_   
_Of victorious love and the opportune life,_   
_They do not seem to believe in their happiness_   
_And their song mingles with the moonlight,_   


  
_With the still moonlight, sad and beautiful,_   
_That sets the birds dreaming in the trees_   
_And the fountains sobbing in ecstasy,_   
_The tall slender fountains among marble statues._   


\- Paul Verlaine (1869)

Her legs were tucked underneath her, pillows pushed like a tower behind her back, as her ginger cat Toby meowed from the end of the bed.

Ignoring the cat, the young woman narrowed her brown eyes at the pages of her book. All of her attention was drawn to Truman Capote's  _In Cold Blood._ Nothing could shake it, not even the morning light shining onto her face, or – her alarm clock, "Oh no – no –  _no_  – too soon," she moaned as it went off.

The book was still firmly in her hands when her bedroom door bounced open, and she turned the alarm off with a dark look at her father.

He stood in the doorway with a cup in his hand. The smell of coffee tempted her senses, making her spring up from the bed, as he looked at her with an amused expression, "You didn't sit up too long, did you?" he said knowingly, scratching at his beard.

Molly pressed her lips together, "No," she said, retrieving the cup from his hands, clinging to the heat between her fingertips, and the bitter flavour she could trust.

"It's your last book though."

"It's not my last – _last_  – book," she said, "Maybe one of the professors actually has-," what was the word she was looking for – " _taste_  this year."

"I don't think they'd actually call ours refined, love. Now get dressed. I can't drive you, got an early start - so you've got to take Stella."

Molly grinned cheekily, "Dad, why do you call inanimate objects – women's na-,"

"Don't be late," he interrupted stonily.

Her heart dropped when she remembered. Not that she could forget, watching the slight tension drift into the shoulders of her father, as he walked away.

"I won't," she said with a small voice, lowering her head slightly, before her eyes were back on her book.

Later on, Molly looked up thinking five minutes had past, and saw that she'd spent thirty instead, so she ran.

* * *

Panting for breath she ran, her heels clicked soundly on the floor of the deserted hallway. For once, she was actually, properly late.

The fact that Mrs Bloom at the reception held out her schedule already, with pursed red lips, her mouth twitching, as Molly gave a breathless, "Thank you," half-tripping through the hallways, reminded her that this had often been the case.

_English 08:15_

Already she was to be reminded of why she loathed school, despite her accomplishments. Every single work of art or piece of literature was dissected, contemplated to the point of ruin, at least if Ruthers was her Professor.

There was truly a lack of passion in the man, not that she expected any of the professors to be shouting out after  _Catherine_  in the moors, or living by Oscar Wilde's standards, but – it wasn't Professor Ruthers name on the schedule.

Instead it was -  _S. Holmes._

Molly halted at the shut classroom door, staring at her timetable with a gaping mouth. Ruthers with his dry voice, that went on and on in a monotone fashion, who seemed inclined to be keep his arms glued at his sides – wasn't her English Professor this year.

If she hadn't been so absolutely taken back, she would have noticed the door had opened almost silently, only the discernable creak giving it away.

Brown eyes met an indeterminable blue-green hue.

Gasping, she stared at the unfamiliar face of her new Professor. He wasn't at all similar to the ashen face of Ruthers.

His face was pale with high cheekbones, fascinating eyes, and dark curled hair that fell gracefully onto his forehead, as if placed there by a tentative hand.

Whatever his age was, he was certainly younger than Ruthers, though his eyes spoke volumes enough on their own. They were by far more intelligent. A compliment she'd never paid anyone, but she felt - by the hurried glance he'd given her – that he knew everything.

Even worse, he had seen her, and found her  _lacking._

She felt a jolt in her stomach - hard - and at present difficult to understand, his narrowed stare made the hairs on her neck stand on end.

Truly only seconds had passed, yet it felt to her like years had gone by when he finally stepped aside. His attention was drawn to the book in his hand, a bored expression on his face as he said, "Miss Hooper, I presume."

His voice was deep, the sort of voice one wished to hear reading poetry – a voice that truly belonged to the stage, as it reached every corner of the silent classroom with ease.

Several laughed, not that she was unfamiliar to that, when she past him. Eyes flickered towards her, as she with her hastily reddening cheeks was trying to find an available seat, preferably at the back, but the second her eyes caught one, "I've saved you one," he said.

Whipping her head towards him, she saw his hand absentmindedly gesture towards a seat straight at the front, with a book perched on the top.

Her heart dropped, her cheeks unable to push down the blush of shame in her face, as she settled down in the seat. Of course now she could never choose one in the back without giving the impression that she was terrified of him.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said hurriedly, keeping her eyes on her desk, having to listen to the stifled giggling around her.

She wasn't the only one with red cheeks by the look of it, though theirs were obviously not due to embarrassment. The fact that he didn't seem at all angry with her made her nervous.

He was so unlike Ruthers that it threw her off.

There was also something in his movement that was different, without even saying anything the man dominated the room, even when his eyes weren't fixed on the students.

His shoulders weren't burdened with a slightly tattered suit.

Instead he wore a simple white shirt, which was tailored, with a dark blue tie, and a pair of grey trousers. He seemed casual, yet not at all.

It was perhaps the manner he held himself, with a straight back, and his silence that made the class obedient. Usually they'd be loud, arguing with rebellion on their minds, whenever a new inexperienced Professor came around.

"Sir," he said, making her blink.

"I'm sorry?"

"I'm sorry,  _sir."_

"Sorry, sir," she said shifting awkwardly in her seat, settling her tatty leather rucksack on the floor.

"Page 23, please – Miss Hooper," he said, making her rifle through the pages of her book, "My name is Sherlock Holmes – I am taking over for Professor Ruthers – if you hadn't been occupied with reading during breakfast – you would have known this about five minutes ago."

Her hands froze on the pages of her book, catching his eyes that turned to her, before he directed his attentions yet again to his pages, "Shall we begin?" he said.

Confused, she nodded with the rest of the class, who he was surveying with a piercing stare. He looked like he was expecting to be challenged, though no one said a word. After a few seconds, he finally spoke, "John Keats."

"What do you know about him?" he continued, his hand jerking towards one of the pupils whose hand shot up.

"He was a poet, sir," said a boy named Rupert Stark proudly, puffing his chest out, as he looked round the class significantly.

Professor Holmes did not look impressed, his brows furrowing ever so slightly, "A text book answer, Mr Stark – which can be read from the first line of his short biography on this page alone – anyone else?" His eyes yet again turned to the class, but this time fewer hands were thrown up - none in fact.

Molly swallowed in surprise.

Ruthers had a tendency of being rude to the point of insolent, but obviously he was  _soft_  compared to some. Somehow, despite herself she raised her hand gingerly. Professor Holmes' eyes were instantly on her, "Sir, the class hasn't read up on him yet," she said carefully.

"Are you apologising for Mr Stark's ignorance, Miss Hooper?" he said dryly.

Everyone around her was stunned; there was a general intake of breath. "No -  _sir_  – but – you asked what we know about him. Not everyone knows more than that about John Keats." Not only was she tardy, she was challenging his methods, however rude they were. It was certainly out of character for her.

"Do you, Miss Hooper?" he said.

Rupert almost seemed grateful in the distance, while she drew for breath without even eyeing the page before her, "He's one of the romantics, but he wasn't valued when he was alive, sir, as most poets were at the time. He used a bit more – err – sensual imagery than the rest of them – most notably his ode-,"

"To a nightingale," he finished for her, "You have read him?"

He was looking at her with interest.

"I wanted to read him before he got ruined," she said without thinking, and the tension that had filled the class dissolved with laughter.

Surprisingly enough even Professor Holmes chuckled, his deep voice resonating in the classroom, "Do call me _sir,_  Miss Hooper – however, she is right – now – would anyone care to read the ode, or shall I?" he said directing his attention to the class, much more enthusiastically, as if there was still hope for them anyway.

But no one raised their hand; Molly turned round to several in disbelief, and saw some of the girls whispering (they were plainly hoping the Professor would), "Fine," said Professor Holmes, "Mr Stark – read the next page."

Their hopes were dashed the second Rupert cleared his throat, as he hesitantly began, "My heart - aches, and a drows-s-s-y numbness pains my senses, as though of hem-lock - I have – had - drunk."

It was torture, hearing him butcher the lines, and she dared a look at Professor Holmes. His face was unreadable, though she perceived the visible frustration in his eyes. Still, he did not say anything amiss when Rupert finished, except thanking him for his efforts.

Soon enough they were put to the task of discerning their own interpretation of the poet's words, but he also gave them schoolwork (not wholly unexpected), "Two paragraphs on John Keats,  _except_  – Miss Hooper."

Molly who'd been deep in thought, with her notebook splattered with ink before her, looked up, "You will write me a two page essay on his life's work – a punishment – for your tardiness." She didn't argue with him, only giving a slight nod, as she saw others groaning for her sake.

When she turned in her essay – it was four pages, not two.

* * *

_**Enigma:** _ _One that is puzzling, ambiguous, or inexplicable._

Professor Holmes wasn't found habitually lounged in doors smoking with the other professors during his free periods, though he did smell of pipe tobacco when returning to class.

No one knew where he took his lunch, until a Mr Andrews and Miss Baxter were trying to find a quiet place on the roof, only to receive a detention instead for  _indecent_  behaviour.

Unlike the other professors, he didn't indulge in social behaviour, even if some of the female professors were intent on seeking him out for such, though by the gossip that tore through the school it was certainly not about school matters.

Molly found herself increasingly distracted by the mutterings that went on, despite her prejudice towards that. The professors' private lives were, in fact, none of their business – but she too couldn't pretend that the man didn't fascinate her.

After receiving almost full marks with the note –  _Two pages would have been sufficient -_ on her essay, she found herself amused, though intrigued by him.

Not much was known about him. Of the things talked about, the man himself hadn't confirmed any of it. According to some he had worked at a private school, travelled abroad after that, and was doing this as a favour for his brother.

His brother was apparently a friend of Ruthers, so in some ways it made sense, though Molly felt bothered by it.

Holmes' teachings were certainly unorthodox, often he'd let himself get distracted, and encouraged the pupils to discuss the pages they read thoroughly, instead of pushing his own beliefs at them.

He seemed to like them to think for themselves -  _make their own deductions_  – it breathed life into the class, making them feel invigorated the minute they left him (though on occasions he would call them idiots if they came with an opinion based fully on emotions instead of facts).

But she didn't feel he was entirely truthful with them, despite the fact that he had said nothing on the subject of himself – he was like a tightly wound lie in her eyes.

Every time anyone came late to his class, he would know what they had done to earn their tardiness, which was disconcerting.

It was even worse when he didn't care to explain  _how_  he did it, giving them a baleful look if they attempted to broach the topic, but in the end no one dared to be late.

Holmes was clever, calculatedly cold on occasion, and by all means the most interesting professor they'd ever had, by the fact that no one knew anything about him. It took three weeks before anyone knew he had a _friend_  – a short sandy-haired man with spectacles who appeared at his side, both of them having a whispered conversation, until the man left the grounds, and wasn't seen again.

In short, the professor was a mystery, but she never expected it was she who would figure him out.


	2. Curious

  
**Curious:** Eager to learn more:  _curious investigators; a trapdoor that made me curious._  


* * *

She left  _Stella_  on the school grounds, intending to leave earlier the next morning instead of having to hurry on the light-blue bicycle that often rode her in late. Relying too heavily on the bike had given her the disadvantage of assuming she'd be on time, which wasn't often the case.

Like every Wednesday, she'd be going to her granny's after school, which required a ride on the tube. Somehow doing that seemed  _exotic_  in a way. It was the most travel she'd done in her life, and it upset her knowing this might be the most she'd do.

There weren't many options for her in the future; she knew that too well, as her family wasn't rich, though her father had put her in a school that was of better quality than he really could afford.

She'd argued against it, though he wanted the very best for her and constantly assured her they would get by. Unable to argue against him properly, she tried to scrounge some money from her rather horrid granny, who enjoyed having her on visits just so she'd read dismal passages from her grubby leathery books, that all spewed about the sanctity of marriage and the purity in a woman.

The fact was, her grandmother  _Anna Geier_  was a rude old woman with a vicious little poodle called Melville of all names, but was horribly rich. She indulged in keeping her money in her family. However, the second Molly's mother had married Harry Hooper, instead of the proposed plan of some ostentatious, snooty-minded individual, all her serene composure had dropped.

Molly's mother, Elizabeth, had been prideful enough on her own to drop all contact with the woman, but Molly kept it up, due to careful prodding from her then living grandfather –  _Frederic_  – who was very sweet.

Somehow, despite herself, she'd grown fond of the woman in a way that her father deemed wasn't possible, "Don't let her make you believe she'll give you anything."

Her granny never brushed the topic of money really, except slip notes into the book she wanted Molly to borrow to cleanse her mind. Being frightfully religious, the woman kept up appearances by going to church every Sunday, which Molly on occasion attended with her, as the woman was unable to get far on her own.

She knew that the woman taking care of her wasn't exactly happy to be in her granny's presence either, so she let her have a day off. "Granny-watch," her dad would call it.

Now here she was on the train, heading to her granny's house intending to spend her precious reading time with a woman who didn't exactly radiate affection towards her - but she suspected that in the woman's strange way – reading sermons aloud  _was_  affection.

Molly pursed her lips, awaiting the station-call, when she caught sight of one of the passengers. Blanching in her seat, she hunched her shoulders slightly, trying to seem insignificant, as she slowly returned her eyes to the sight before her.

It was Professor Holmes, wearing a tweed jacket and an expression of severe distaste, while holding a leather suitcase in his hand.

Molly was all surprise, considering the fact that she never knew he was the sort of man who'd take the tube, as she usually saw him dash away from the school grounds in a black Aston Martin.

Rumours were aflutter at the school, all were quite certain he was well-endowed, though she suspected that they deliberately meant something entirely different, but she'd rather not think about _that_.

His blue eyes were flitting to the watch on his wrist, his brows furrowing, until he gave a sigh, and suddenly saw her.

Startled she turned her head, bowing it down to her lap, and started to fidget with her uniform, quickly pulling at the skirt.

It was one thing to be observing him in the classroom, but she didn't want him to think she was one of those who felt inclined to bat her eyelashes at him. Quite the contrary, she admired him, of course, but –

"Miss Hooper," said his familiar baritone voice.

Colour flooded her cheeks, as she looked up, "Oh, err – sorry – sir."

"What exactly are you apologising for Miss Hooper? Or, are you warning me ahead of time that you will not be punctual tomorrow?" He looked amused for once, which made her feel out of sorts.

"No, no, not at all, sir," she said wide-eyed, entirely unsure of how to deal with the situation.

"No need to call me sir, Miss Hooper."

She was about to open her mouth to respond, however the train had stopped, "I believe this is your stop," he said with a raised brow, at which she sprinted out, spewing forth a flurry of apologies towards him.

Relief came to her the instance she was out of the train and away from him. He did make her terribly nervous, even more so than her granny did.

* * *

"You look particularly flushed today – you didn't run here?" asked her granny with a beady eye.

"No," said Molly quickly.

Her granny scoffed loudly, "Lying, are you?"

"No," said Molly a bit slower, sitting in the stiff embroidered chair that was only a semblance of softness, but felt as if she was sitting on pins and needles.

Melville was barking at the window, snarling at passers by, "Oh, he's excited today, aren't you little Mel?" said her granny with a sweetened voice.

Molly was quite sure that if her granny did ever pass away, it was rather likely that she would leave everything to the curly old mess that she brought to her lap, "Now begin, I haven't got all day."

Exhaling, Molly opened the heavy book on her lap, feeling it weigh down her thighs, as she turned the pages to where they'd left off.

* * *

Remarkably enough, the unexpected chance meeting with Professor Holmes turned habitual, with her trying not to meet his eye in the hope that he might not speak to her. She'd been raising her hand less in class, though he pointed her out often enough regardless, so it was a futile attempt of behaving normal.

If she were entirely honest with herself she knew why she was trying to  _avoid_  him, unlike the others in her year who followed him around on the school grounds giggling soundly.

She didn't feel inclined to be seen as vapid.

He was constantly throwing acid remarks to them who dared, with such passionate conviction, but that seemed to only fuel the fire.

It powered other assumptions as well that she didn't dare brush upon, for several of the lads had been very adamant with their opinion about that – "Not my area," was Professor Holmes' final comment on the subject, when it was brought up in class to everyone's bated breath.

"Not your area, sir?" said one of the lads, causing others to snigger.

Professor Holmes frowned, "No."

No one seemed to back away, even after that statement, and Molly subsequently assumed that if he were at all open about his personal life they'd desist. Yet, she could see the flaw to this logic, as it was apparent that his legend had gone too far now after two months as a Professor. Whatever he'd say now would be easily forgotten.

The following Wednesday, she sat in the tube with him for company again. Not that they were speaking, or that she tried to do anything but remain unseen. Despite stating to herself repeatedly that he wasn't handsome, she sat observing him, with a book shielding her face.

He made her wonder really, that was all, nothing other than that, as she couldn't deny that she wasn't curious about his private – "Your book is upside down, Miss Hooper."

Holmes always seemed to manage to catch her unawares, despite the fact that her eyes had been trained on him seconds ago. She jolted upwards in her seat, feeling a nervous laugh catching in her throat, "It's supposed to be read like that," she said quickly. Though she still turned the book upright in her hands.

His blue eyes were upon her, twinkling in the pleasant way she only saw outside class, "Indeed."

She clamped shut the copy of _'Emma'_ , distracting herself by toying with her ponytail, "I was a bit – preoccupied."

"I'm sure the young man is enjoying your musings," he said with a sigh, returning his attention to a book in his hands -  _The Crimes of Love_  by Marquis De Sade.

Her eyes stayed on him, though he did not look up, avoiding her eyes entirely.

* * *

"Molly," barked her granny, "You've read that passage twice already!" The fact that she had repeated herself surprised her, let alone that the woman had noticed.

"Oh, sorry."

She continued on, her voice less loud than usual.

"Speak up! I detest mumbling."

"Right, right, sorry."

Molly tried yet again, "Stop!" said her granny, quite forcefully, and she felt like chucking the book at the woman's face, "If you do not intend to do it well, then you don't need to do it at all."

"Ok," said Molly standing up from her seat, seeing the flabbergasted face of her granny, before she turned away, letting the tome of a book slip to the floor.

* * *

Instead of taking the tube back, Molly found herself walking home, a thing she knew her dad disliked, but she felt like walking. Clearing her head amidst her walk, she felt guilt churn in her stomach, as she knew her granny would now be out of sorts, probably ringing her dad immediately after she left.

He was most likely anxious and she didn't want him to be. She just needed a moment to herself, since she wasn't ever really alone to contemplate anything, and it bothered her.

But she was absolutely troubled by the fact that  _he_  was invading her thoughts. It felt rather sudden, when instead of speaking to her he'd taken up a book, but then again it didn't need to signify anything. Holmes was perhaps tired of talking with her, and she was certain that she wasn't particularly poised for any conversation outside of lessons.

* * *

Her hand was up now, almost bristling in her seat, her arm straining at the pressure, as he seemed to wilfully ignore her, "Anyone?" he repeated, eyes to the book, looking extremely bored of them all.

One of the boys– William Mumford's hand rose up, "Mumford," said Professor Holmes with his lips pressed together.

"Err – sir – I think – actually that Hooper has got the answer – she's been holding her arm up for about a minute?" he said shrinking slightly in his seat, as the class started to laugh.

Depending on the shocked expression on his face, he hadn't expected that to happen, and Molly let her hand drop with finality, giving to study her book instead.

" _Hooper_ ," said Professor Holmes, causing Molly's brows to connect, as he mimicked Mumford's speech.

She drew back her shoulders slightly, "I – I -," she started, realising she'd managed to forget what she was about to say.

"Obviously,  _Hooper_  doesn't  _remember_  -," He wasn't even going to let her try, "Let's move on shall we?" he said, though it was obviously not even a question.

* * *

What little admiration she had for him ceased with his humiliating mockery of her in class. Despite the fact that it all contradicted with the marks he gave her, which were full. Tiny commentaries cluttered her essays, with much more clear writing instead of his regular cluttered heap, but the comments - "Brilliant!" and "Amazing work." made her even more puzzled.

He had certainly outdone himself in the terms of creating an enigma, for those who spoke the loudest in class, didn't have such luck in their essays, and she almost thought he didn't recognise her name on the papers, but he'd still drop them wordlessly on the desk he'd assigned her. At first she assumed she'd have to be wary, though her grades did not shift in the slightest way, if any – his class was her best.

Granny did indeed forgive her for her inappropriate behaviour, chuckling slightly to herself, "It's a boy, then," she said out of the blue, causing Molly to almost drop the book in her hands in shock.

"What?"

"It is, then? Well…at least be sure he's not an imbecile."

Her grandmother did not breathe another word about the subject, taking to stroke Melville fondly, like she was remembering something.

* * *

Encounters with him now were spent in silence, with him busying himself with one of his  _obscure_  books, that she suspected weren't on loan from the library (she'd checked).

Every copy of his seemed worn; she assumed they were from his personal library. Holmes most likely had a vast collection too, considering his knowledge, though she'd heard rumours that he'd spoken to one of the science teachers, who'd chortled, when Holmes was unfamiliar with the location of the planets, "Apparently – he  _deleted_  the information!" Professor Cadbury told the class who were enraptured at the sudden change of tone from the otherwise repetitious Professor.

It was one afternoon, darkened by the overcast sky that she was unshackling  _Stella_ , when she caught the bashful stare of Mumford who'd attempted to be her rescuer in class, "Hello," he said in a small voice, standing by his own bicycle.

Blinking at him, she frowned slightly, "Hello," she said in return, loosening the bounds on her bike until she had a hold on the handlebars, half-climbing on it.

He'd never spoken to her in private before.

"I was wondering-," he said behind her back, and she turned round to see him rifling his hand through his hair, "You're – you're quite clever, you know."

"Err – thank you-,"

"I mean, in class, that is, since, obviously – you're the best – you wouldn't – have any tips on writing?"

Molly found herself internally sighing.  _Of course_ , she'd been through this before… Another classmate was asking her for help, which would end with her writing essays for him. She frowned slightly, pursing her lips, until she said, "Reading, that helps."

Mumford looked rather disappointed at that, "Right, of course, silly of me," and then he rode off, though she was more put out by the sudden commentary that slid unexpectedly from the corner of the mouth of Professor Holmes, who past by, "Perhaps you should avoid all romantic entanglements Miss Hooper, as you seem adequate at sending suitors off on your own."

In the end, she understood and felt terrible.

By some odd coincidence, Mumford's marks on his essays did improve, but the looks he threw her did not.

Professor Holmes acted normally once more in class, at least for her that was, as he now seemed keen to listen to her instead of brushing her off. This was how Mumford's marks became known to her, when Professor Holmes read the impressive story that, "Mr Mumford has spun, though it clearly indicates a stung ego, but it is better than the infested romantic dribble you threw out previously– about a girl with  _golden_   _eyes_." Most of the boys were laughing, though Molly's laugh stayed in her throat, as Mumford threw her a withering look.

Professor Holmes' legible commentaries on her essays suddenly reverted to the mess he'd started out with, though the phrases were the same, though less – amazed.

* * *

Despite Professor Holmes' altered state, he still didn't seem inclined to speak with her during their shared journeys, and she kept to her own books, only briefly looking up to read the new title he was carrying with him.

Her curiosity hadn't dissolved despite her previous frustration with him; neither did she feel like pretending that she wasn't either. Eying him once and again wasn't exactly illegal, and he wasn't unused to it, she supposed. After all – she was only curious about the book, though perhaps she shouldn't have looked so closely.

For it was one tube ride when he stood up before her, slipped a book out of his briefcase, unceremoniously dropped it on top of her lap and left.

Startled she glanced around her, to see that no one had taken note, before staring onto the familiar cover of  _The Crimes of Love_  by Marquis De Sade.


	3. Hesitation

  
**Hesitation:** the act of hesitating; a delay due to uncertainty or fear.

* * *

It was forbidden in some countries, too vulgar to be considered literature, and universally hated by some. Such a book she would never suspect he would read, or even own for that matter. Every passage was dramatic, full of life, of truths and by all means – absolutely erotic.

Her professor, she could agree, was rather dramatic in his affairs around the classroom, but she never expected him to hand her such a book. There was even a simple instruction included, which she would not hesitate to follow –  _read it_.

Nothing else was written upon the piece of parchment except those hastily written words. Molly soon found herself entirely wrapped up in the book, settled underneath her covers with Toby trying to adjust himself comfortably on her knees.

Every short story was slightly disconcerting, though she couldn't find the will to put it down, "Good book?" said her dad from the open door of her bedroom.

Molly pulled on her duvet, so the title was obscured, "Oh, yes – a series of short stories," she said, " _French_."

His eyes glazed over slightly, "Don't stay up too late, though."

He'd never been a fan of foreign authors, and for that she was grateful, but it was impossible he hadn't heard of Marquis De Sade.

"I won't," she said all-too cheerily.

He whispered a soft 'goodnight' after that, giving her a pointed stare, which made her rest properly on her pillows to give him the impression she would sleep soon.

It wasn't until she heard his bedroom door snap shut, that she sprang up to lock her own, resolving to keep it closed for the future.

Toby looked at her with a murderous expression, meowing loudly at the lack of warmth from her legs, and she soon held him in her arms, feeling his fluffy ginger hair tickle her chin, "Toby, this is our secret alright?"

* * *

Molly didn't have many to share said secret with, not that she didn't have friends, though they were more people she was inclined to spend her free periods with rather than discuss books, as they didn't feel as passionate as she did.

There was nothing wrong with that.

She had enough of amusing discussions with her father who delved more into crime-novels, and old war-novels, than anything else. Her mother was better at knowing her Austen, Bronte and Dickens. It was she who'd introduced her to the written word, and subsequently she'd even taught her father to read properly.

That was how Harry and  _Lizzie_ had met, with a mutual fondness for books, and Molly herself loved them to bits. Any book really, perusing even the books her father adored, but she truly enjoyed writing.

The written word had so many alluring things to it, there were so many things one could say openly, and then avoid saying, and that was fascinating.

In her hands there would be a copy of a story written long ago, written down by someone sitting by low candlelight, or on a typewriter in broad daylight, putting down their own thoughts about the world.

These words made their thoughts - their ideas – live on  _forever_ , at least every time someone picked up their book.

She wrote, but silly things really.

Molly was wretched thinking of what she'd penned when her mother had died in the accident. Once she'd believed in God, in faith, but all that was torn away by a slippery road and a pair of glasses that had fallen from the drivers face.

Misfortune had struck, and it took months before her father had managed to speak out loud without weeping openly. In this she had to be the strong one, just as her mother had been, constantly reminding her father that there was still hope, though she barely believed it herself.

Her miserable little piece had been printed somewhere, though she never told her father, keeping the magazine tucked away safely in her night-drawer with no intention of ever showing it to him.

Apparently it had been so good, it was printed in several other religious magazines outside the country. Her heart had been a heavy burden, and that was how she managed to remove the pain – with words, which she wasn't supposed to have.

Now new words, strange and foreign, were before her. Enticing in ways she could not comprehend, for here was a piece of Professor Holmes' private life, and she knew not how to cope with it other than read on.

She could imagine seeing him sitting in his home, idly pushing the pages aside, his face marred with concentration, and his back poised. Unconsciously she straightened her back without thought, digging into the pillows behind her, as she soaked up the pages with surprising ease. Somehow it felt like these words were for her, like he had given a part of himself away, and that roused a pleasant feeling in her stomach.

* * *

Conversations flourished around her, other pupils chatting happily amongst themselves, while she hesitantly packed her books.

Her eyes would turn towards him every now and then.

Professor Holmes had not look like a man who'd borrowed her a book, seeming unaffected by their exchange, unlike her, who turned flustered at the very sight of him.

Opening the book had opened another pathway to his mind, which she was sure no one else was truly familiar with. The book was rude, grim and of course she finished it the night before. She wondered if  _this_  was he, if he identified himself with these words, and the idea barely made her able to swallow.

Molly was stood in the classroom, trying to slow her pace, as she waited until the room was emptied enough. When it was, she quickly took to her feet, silently bringing the book forth and easing it onto his desk.

She whispered a low, "Thank you," intending to have a quick get-away, as she didn't exactly know what to say about the book.

"Finished already?" he drawled from behind his desk, a brow turned upwards, but he did not look up at her.

She stopped in her step, turning to give him a nod.

"Do try to get some sleep, Miss Hooper," he said.

He probably noticed the prominent dark marks underneath her eyes, for her father had remarked upon them. Molly gave another nod, almost unable to speak, before she scurried off nearly stumbling onto people in the hallway.

No one seemed to notice her odd behaviour, probably assuming that their brief conversation was about school, and she did not hasten to correct their thoughts.

Beyond that, he didn't do anything remotely bizarre in class. He did not allude to the book either, like she supposed. She half-expected him to drop another book on her desk, or enquire her for a five paged-essay on her feelings about Marquis de Sade, who was a peculiar man in his own right.

If the borrowing of said book was done in the open, then it wouldn't be any stranger than anything else he's done, though she highly suspected that the other girls would perhaps want to be in the  _club._  Molly knew, however, that if anyone knew about the rather lurid book he'd given her – none would approve.

Neither did she feel like breaching the topic loudly to anyone, as somehow she was certain no one would believe her.

* * *

Holmes' shorter friend appeared yet again that week, to everyone's surprise. He didn't seem bothered that pupils stood gaping in the distance, especially when the pair off them drove off right before class. His classes were soon taken over by Miss Clarington, who wore an all-too tender smile on her face.

"Obviously – she fancies him. They're probably…" Molly left, not wishing to hear the rest of the story, though she was curious to know where Professor Holmes had taken off to.

Several tales were of course conjured up for the occasion; whether any of them were true she wasn't to be the judge of, but she tried to keep her mind off it to no avail.

Fortunately, the weekend came, and she hoped that she would be distracted enough by her old childhood friend Susan. She only ended up realising that they'd grown apart by the way their conversations often stilled. The small pauses would make her mind wander too often, and it certainly did not help when Susan asked if Molly liked any of the boys at her school.

Her hands almost trembled, spots of pink appearing in her cheeks, but she did not divulge her secret, despite Susan's pestering. Concluding the whole discussion with a brief shrug, "No, not really."

There was after all no secret to tell.

* * *

His frustration with the class was evident, by the way he threw out several hurtful remarks to those who questioned him, as well as his harsh strides across the room, but it was soon evident that the lesson could not continue without the subject being addressed.

"Will you shut up about the topic if I answer your questions?" The entire classroom stilled, everyone on the edge of their seats, some of the boys even leaning forward, as Professor Holmes looked at them all with raised brows, "Fine."

He snapped the book in his hand shut, "On occasion, I assist Scotland Yard." Holmes seemed to assume this was enough, though loud voices filled the room and he barked, "Silence – hands up if you are so nosy!"

Hands shot up desperately seeking his attention. Professor Holmes pointed at one of the lads who with hurried breath said, "Assist them in what – English literature, sir?"

Holmes snorted, "No – I help them when they are out of their depth."

"In cases?" said another girl.

"Hand!"

The girl brought up her hand, "In cases, sir?"

He drew his hand through his dark curls, "No, miss Edwards, I advice them in the finer points of Dickens.  _Of course_   _in cases_! I was merely steering them in the right direction, with the help of Doctor John Watson. Now – shall we begin?"

It took several minutes until the class was entirely settled, though Holmes did not seem  _too_  displeased when asked to relate the case at hand, which was surprisingly grotesque.

"Amazing!" was repeated several times during his tale by baffled classmates, which brought forth a genuinely pleased expression on their professor's face.

"John would say the same," said Holmes, startling them all more with his familiar tone.

* * *

Craning her neck she entered, brown eyes fluttering towards any of the men occupying the tube. His familiar figure seemed to be missing, as she settled down in an available seat with her legs pressed together. Molly gave up looking, insisting to herself that her journey was not about seeing him after all. None of this was for his benefit, but for her grandmother.

Propping up a book she'd borrowed from the library, she adjusted her gaze to the pages. Suddenly her arm jostled as the woman who'd sat besides her on her left stood up, and she found herself frowning when a man occupied the seat, somehow managing to brush the side of her thigh with his briefcase.

She looked up in annoyance, only to find a familiar face, which quickly made her throw her eyes back down to the pages of her book. "Miss Hooper," said Professor Holmes, the corner of his mouth turning upwards.

She cleared her throat slightly, feeling the side of her thigh tingle with the knowledge that he'd grazed her, even if it was just his briefcase. Her skin was assuredly reddening, her lips parting slightly, as she avoided looking at him, "Sir," she said feeling her hands tremble against the book.

She had seen him repeatedly in class, but their meetings outside of class bore a different air. He seemed less stifled (if that was even possible), and her more nervous. Molly did not understand why she should be tense, as he was just her professor.

Feeling observed, she looked out of the corner of her eye, seeing him unabashedly stare at her. He looked puzzled, though when he saw her catching him in the act, he quickly spoke.

"I gathered you enjoyed the read, then?" he said conversationally.

"Yes," she said shutting her book.

She kept the book on her lap, allowing her hands to hold on to it, as she knew not where else to put them, "Though – I don't think it would be on the syllabus, sir." She murmured the last sentence, eyes now on him, though she kept her face to the front. No one seemed to care about their exchange, mostly keeping to themselves, but she felt like being careful. Not that she understood why she felt like that either.

"Obviously," he said, opening the hatches of his briefcase.

Amidst the various papers, files, and what seemed to be – tobacco ash – he brought out another book –  _Story of my life_  by Giacomo Casanova.

This she certainly wasn't unfamiliar with, quite the contrary.

He held it out with his long fingers, his face all innocence, while she stared. She had not expected another book. It took her a few seconds before she took it out of his hands, briefly touching his soft fingers at the exchange.

She withdrew with the book, staring at the worn cover, until he yet again reminded her, "Your stop."

When she was stood on the station, she marvelled over the curious tingles that caressed her fingertips and felt ridiculous.

* * *

"Tell me about the boy," howled her grandmother, while Molly was mid-sentence, looking up in shock.

"What?" she said, almost dropping the book in her hands.

Her grandmother hadn't brought up the subject since her dramatic exit last time, and she had rather hoped she wouldn't. There was no  _boy,_ certainly no man either – cluttering her thoughts, occupying her rucksack with his borrowed literature, for whatever intent or purpose he was employing.

"Not  _what_  – pardon, Molly," said granny with one eye narrowed in suspicion, as Molly allowed the book to fall onto her lap.

"There is no boy."

"You sound bored."

Reading sermons wasn't exactly her idea of an amusing pastime to be entirely frank, as the passages were dismal with no respite found in the text, "I'm – I'm just tired, gran – I'm sorry."

The old woman tutted loudly, stomping her cane on the floor, making the mass of carpet on her lap scurry downwards, reappearing by the window barking – most likely intent to scare passing people, "What is his name?"

Molly gaped, though she quickly shut her mouth, "Honestly, granny – there is no boy."

"What is his name?" she repeated.

Giving to sigh, "Are you tired?" Molly said, wishing to distract her, even yawning all too loudly for effect.

"No, and you most certainly are not – so tell me – who is distracting you-,"

"No one!" she said, and that was the truth. The professor was her professor, and he was not driving her to distraction whatsoever, "There is no one, absolutely no one."

Her grandmother looked at her all-too knowingly, until she gave a brief nod, "Continue then, if you're so certain."

* * *

She ran most of the pathway home, drenched in sweat when she got there, swallowing her dinner at top-speed. Her father had only chortled at her, "Keen, are we?" he said.

Abruptly she dropped the fork in her hand, picking it up to slow her movements, "No," she said with a low voice, distracting him with a question about his work.

The second she got underneath her covers, with Casanova in her lap, her hands ready to embark on another curious literary journey - she froze.

Slowly she shut the cover of the book, holding it firmly in her hands, seeing quite clearly in her head his long fingers that previously held it. Leaning back into her pillows, she stared up at her ceiling, feeling the heavy weight in her stomach take place, as she now swallowed the truth.

It was true, there was a boy, but he was no  _boy_. She had become one of the girls she disliked, who mooned over her professor. She did not wish to moon, did not wish to romanticise about the man, since obviously he was just giving her literature her father would certainly not obtain for her.

These were not books she could easily ask for from the library, quite the contrary, as surely that would end in humiliation.

The –  _why_  – lingered in her mind.

Why on earth would he give her these books? There were so many other splendid books to procure, to seek out, and she did, of course. Why didn't he hand her a list of recommendations instead? Why was he handing her books from his own personal library?

Fondling the hard cover, she stared; knowing that he'd selected it for her, brought it down from his shelf, and had given it to her for her to take. "Oh Toby," she moaned, clutching the book to her chest in sorrow over the way her stomach stirred.

He had awoken something within her, which she was not sure she wished to be kindled. In the end, amidst the light from her lamp, she did not fight against it, allowing herself to give in, even if she was certain nothing would come from it.

* * *

She'd always been impressed by his presence, the way he'd enrapture the class with his passionate speeches, his blue eyes flickering over them to see if they paid attention, as they did today. He looked different, but perhaps it wasn't he who had changed.

Breathing around him was difficult, so was it to pack  _Casanova_ in her rucksack in resignation over finishing it. She swallowed each word quickly, her eyes lingering all too long on pieces where Casanova described his  _conquests._

This was mild compared to the previous book, a fact she almost giggled at. Regardless, its lack of sordid detail, it still kept her toes bent underneath her covers.

Holmes stilled all of a sudden, "Romance! No subject has enraptured and eluded literature – we have Shakespeare – we have Keats – our classics spinning every word, some of it dry - dull, but then there is Lord Byron," his brow was raised – "His were known as more  _literate_ ('uncertain laughter sounded in the classroom'), though we are not exploring his unfinished  _Don Juan,_ no. Turn to page – 130."

"This is –  _She walks in beauty_  -," he said, and several in the class seemed to shrink in their seats, while her chin only rested in the palm of her hand.

Holmes' eyes turned to her, then flicked to the page, "She walks in beauty-," he started in his voice, deep, almost filling the entire room.

A few of her classmates straightened up in their seats in surprise, her hand dropped from under her chin, as she with parted lips stared at the professor's mouth, " – like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies. And all that's best of dark and bright. Meet in her aspect and her eyes."

He paused.

Looking upwards, she swore his eyes were upon her, until they wavered. Holmes didn't need the book in his hand; closing and holding it shut behind his back, "Thus mellow'd to that tender light, which heaven to gaudy day denies."

Continuing in his stride, he spoke assuredly, and she felt her heart pounding foolishly in her chest, "One shade the more, one ray the less, had half impaired the nameless grace." He gave a wry smile, "Which waves in every raven tress, or softly lightens o'er her face, where thoughts serenely sweet express, how pure, how dear their dwelling-place."

He stopped in front of them now, standing in the middle, imperiously, "And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, so soft – so calm – yet eloquent – the smiles that win," he paused yet again, a soft smile haunting his lips, " - the tints that glow, but tell of days in goodness spent, a mind at peace with all below – a heart whose love is innocent!"

No one spoke, though one clapped, and it spread to the rest.

She only realised belatedly it was her who instigated it, stopping suddenly, as her palms smarted by the intensity of her applause.

Molly tore her eyes away from him, resting them on the poem itself, her hand on the lines, "That is poetry, don't you agree, Miss Hooper?" he said drawing her out.

Blinking, she gave a nod.

"With that said – _out_  –," he said walking off to his desk.

Once again she waited till the classroom was empty, so she could make her approach. She put the book on the desk, as he packed his things, "In what speed do you read, Molly? I am afraid my library will not be sufficient enough if I continue."

She almost dropped the rucksack in her hands, feeling a sudden stirring in her chest, as she covered her shock with speech, "Err - quite quickly, sir."

He had said her name.

"Obviously," he said clasping his suitcase shut, "Do you at all  _enjoy_ the words, or do you swallow them whole?" he said looking at her enquiringly.

"I – I – read, sir."

"Indeed," he said taking the suitcase in one hand, while pocketing the other, "Coming, Miss Hooper?"

"Yes, sir," she said with fast steps, until he turned and locked the classroom door, with her standing behind him.

"Was there anything else?" he said with his back to her, "Since you are fidgeting."

"No – no - or – well – yes."

He turned round with interest, "Yes?"

"Err – do you lend books to others?" she said quietly.

He tilted his head to the side, "Yes –  _sir_."

"Oh, right, of course, sir, sorry. I just wondered, that's all," she said feeling overwhelmed by how silent the hallway was, and she allowed her feet to put distance between them.

She felt stupid for asking.

"Miss Hooper – if you wish me to stop – I will."

She turned to face him, "No, it's – fine, sir."

"Good," he said with an unreadable expression, before he walked off.

She held onto her arms, staring at his back, until she finally turned and left for her next class. For a single second she had been in the belief that she was special, and it stung knowing that wasn't true.


	4. Subtext

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alas there was some wait, due to some problems. Blame time-zones. I'd like to thank my beta AussieMaelstrom and Ceaselesslyinlove for having a look as well. I hope this is ok.

  
**Subtext:**  The implicit meaning or theme of a literary text.

* * *

_Every step she took upon the blue carpet spread dust underneath her slippers. Giving no thought to it, she hurried forward down the dark hallway, feeling as if eyes were upon her._

_She held the lantern in her hands firmly, swallowing at the darkness before her, allowing her light to shine upon the shadows._

_Little was to be seen, though she knew there was a door._

_She was seeking it out, having slipped so quietly out of her room from sheer daring, and want._   _It always seemed to take forever before she found the door. Only her movements echoed in her bleak surroundings._

_She wished she could turn around._

_She never did do so, finding the door in front of her – the instant she thought of fleeing._

_There it was, half-open, a slight outpour of light coming from the inside. Pushing the door open with a pale hand, the door creaked soundly at her entry, "What are you doing here?" a voice said._

_She could not see the speaker, though she knew very well from the heavy warm hands on her waist that he was there._

_His breath danced on her neck, "What are you doing in my room?" he breathed into her ear, and she felt her eyes shut._

_He would bring her to his bed after that, his face innocent, and hers all confusion, while he whispered words that made her pale face flush._

She woke up in the end, when the cold nipped at her form. A tiny disgruntled moan escaped her pale lips, while she tried to ignore the prominent ache in her body.

Molly turned to her side, willing sleep to return, so she could ignore what she ached for. She wanted sleep, nothing more, but by the way her fingernails dug into the mattress, she knew otherwise. The duvet was a crumpled mess by her feet, and she did not feel like correcting it either.

Everything felt heavy, for there was no point, none whatsoever.

No more sleep would be granted to her.

All of her dreams had taken a cruel turn, wandering into a realm of possibility she knew that in her conscious state she would avoid. The books were to be attributed for bringing her these nightly torments that gave no resolution.

Details never stayed, only vague sequences that fluttered in her mind at intervals. Neither did she dare remember them properly. Only one thought remained with her while she lay there, remembering him saying – (it was such a thing  _he_  would say) – "Why are you in my bed?" It was not him who spoke those words. He was only a figment of her imagination, a shadow of the man who stood in the classroom.

Molly gave up the business of sleeping then and there, sitting up in her bed, as she tried to drive the sleep out of her eyes. For many minutes she stayed, allowing her mind to wander freely, to go where it dared not trespass in the classroom. It was amidst these silly thoughts that turned her sweet expressions grim, that her eyes spared a glance at the clock.

The contraption was not on her nightstand, but upon the floor neglected. She grabbed for it, staring in horror, as she saw the time.

Of course, _of course_ she would be late.

Warnings from her father the night before had been no use, "Remember, I'm leaving early in the morning, so I won't be able to wake you, right?" She'd nodded firmly at that, declaring that she would be on time.

* * *

Her wrinkled uniform and messy plait was the least of her worries, upon arriving forty minutes late to class. She did not look innocent whatsoever, quite the opposite, so it was an understatement to say Professor Florence looked angry at her entering. His narrowed eyes took in the state of her uniform, while her stomach churned loudly at the silence.

"Detention!" he spat out to the laughter of the class, not that she had expected any less.

The detention certainly worsened the quality of her day by making her terribly late for her grandmother. Of course she received a severe reprimand from the old lady regarding 'punctuality'.

She wasn't at all sympathetic to her plight, or explanations, only accusing her of being 'whimsical' and 'distracted'.

Molly found she could not argue against those points, for her mind never stayed put these days. When she read, she'd always drift off, but today's sermon kept her mind grounded for once. They were reading about -  _a young girl seduced by an older man_ \- which made her acutely aware of her surroundings.

She practically squirmed in her seat, her foot jittery, as she tried to remain emotionless in her chair. It was a harder task than she supposed, for her mind drew parallels between her and a certain figure.

Neither did it help that her grandmother constantly tutted, coming with the odd cautionary remark digging unease into her stomach. Molly had to constantly remind herself that she had no reason to be anxious, for she was not being seduced.

There were no secret exchanges of letters, or meetings, or any of the kind. All of those similarities were only mere coincidences, and her mind was just drawing silly conclusions more than anything.

Yet, her mind had wandered to the fact that she hadn't had the chance to meet him on the tube for once. The lateness of the hour had done that, and so her idiotic dream had ruined more than she could imagine.

He mustn't have felt her absence whatsoever, and she certainly did not feel torn about his either.

But the more she thought about it, the more restless she grew.

It wasn't as if she wouldn't see him roaming the hallways of the school or in the classroom. He would always be there, though those circumstances were like anyone else's. They were fleeting and ordinary, but she did not need anything else.

She was after all just his pupil, another curious mind he shared books with, and nothing more. Anything else that her mind designed was pure imagination, and she would stop the thoughts at once.

* * *

Molly knew when she took the crowded train home, that deciding to stop thinking about something certainly did not diminish those thoughts, and she found herself feeling his absence keenly.

After all she had no reason to be soppy, for she could indeed ask for a new book in his class. She was not the only one on the receiving end of his books, but the more she mulled that particular moment in her head – she realised – he hadn't truly answered her question.

It was she who'd assumed he meant 'yes'.

He had only corrected her pronunciation of his name, questioning if he should stop with his  _underhanded_  business of lending books. Since, if she wasn't the only one, then none of it needed to be done so sneakily after all, but she could not compare a tube ride to a shady alley exactly.

She was being presumptuous. All of it resembled wishful thinking, and want of things she did not yet need to understand.

Her mind cleared a bit as the train jerked along. She was stood half-pressed against the wall, facing forward. Molly wished she'd been taller, so people couldn't easily shove her aside, but such wasn't the case. Around her tall figures stood bearing newspapers or briefcases, all of them ignoring her slight form to her blessing.

Often she would find herself leered at if she rode this late at night, so she kept her eyes down, and tried not to draw attention to herself. Luckily it took little effort for her, but she did struggle keeping herself on her feet.

With every sudden jolt or swing, her body would almost tumble on the surrounding passengers. She tried her best, though another unsuspecting bump came, and before she could brace herself upon the wall – a hand took hold of her shoulder, keeping her on her feet.

Molly was grateful, feeling only a bit unnerved by the unwanted contact, and intended to thank the stranger properly, hoping the hand would disappear with that.

When she was about to turn the train gave another jerk, causing people to cry out, and push them up against one another. Her small shape was soon pressed fully against the wall, her satchel digging into her stomach, as her helpful stranger was now pushed into her back.

She felt by the firmness of the figure behind her that it was a man, who immediately stiffened, his hand grasping her shoulder securely, "Miss Hooper," whispered a familiar voice.

The instant she heard the recognisable baritone voice she knew, and felt a redness creep upon her skin with such rapidity she knew not what to think or do.

It was Professor Holmes.

His voice sounded strained upon uttering her name, even apologetic, and she did not know what to say in return.

He attempted to relieve her shoulder from some pressure, though his hand was unmoving, but by the brief glance she threw backward she saw he could not move.

There were too many people, all of them forced to keep close to one another, ignorant of their predicament.

Molly only swallowed, trying to ignore the way his breath tickled her ear, or the strength that was apparent in his shape.

Images from her dream reappeared rather vividly to her embarrassment.

"I apologise," he said, his voice lower than usual.

She could only nod briefly at that.

His words were not a helpful addition, for his voice only made her recall her dream even more.

She tried to remain calm, despite the highly suggestive position they were forced into by rowdy travellers who were squabbling amongst themselves.

Molly felt herself argue against the intimacy of the moment, and for it. Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to think quickly, for her silence was certainly not adding to the situation.

He was not supposed to be there after all.

Neither was his firm chest supposed to be thrust against her back, his hand attempting to withdraw from her shoulder, "Ah," he said.

She realised he could not remove his hand from her shoulder, though he made no further comment, and she felt relief, besides internal distress.

Whatever his weekly activities were - they'd kept him late, and so had hers.

Her mind started to race as to why he'd sought her out this late, of how he'd manage to find her hidden away like this, and she'd barely had the chance to think when she felt the edge of an object appear behind her back.

The hand on her shoulder was lifted away, splayed out against the wall in front of her instead, his face lightly brushing hers at this alteration.

She jumped at the contact, however small it was was, but she did not get further away.

He wanted to speak, she could feel it, but instead she interrupted him, "It's…alright," she said with a dry throat.

Dream and reality were never supposed to blend, and her nosiness for the object behind her was diminished by the smell of him.

He was so unfamiliarly close, and she felt like she had broken ten school-rules by the proximity they shared.

Suddenly she felt movement around her, as people were starting to disperse at what seemed to have been the longest of journeys. She was taken aback when she felt long fingers drape over her hand.

Molly gasped over the softness of his fingertips, trying to understand, when he prized one of her hands off her satchel.

In her hand he placed a familiar object, though it took her seconds to understand what.

The second she knew, the train had started to empty, and the warmth she had found with him was gone.

In her hands was a book -  _Lady Chatterley's Lover._

* * *

An accident.

She repeated that to herself, trying to calm her nerves that were on a rise, when she finally got home that evening. Conversation she did not manage to keep up, no matter how much she tried, her appetite not improving either by the thought of him lingering around her.

She wasn't supposed to be foolish, not at all, and she kept reminding herself that there were others. They certainly had to receive the same books, but she did not know if they'd ever gotten to him so…close.

Upon finally submitting to her curiosity, despite foreknowledge about the subject matter – she opened up the pages of the book, intending to savour every line.

She wanted to slowly marvel over every word, to penetrate the minds of the characters properly, but amidst her reading – she found a piece of paper.

Molly believed, or wanted to at least believe it was purely some odd scrap of paper he'd forgotten from work, but upon the note it said -

_221 B Baker Street, Saturday, 6 o´clock._

* * *

Words faded away before her, the lines blurring so often she did not find the task at hand easy, but she was now certain she would finish the book at a slow rate.

Her eyes kept drifting off to the mystifying note, with its address, and day marked down. She slammed the book in her hands shut, giving it up as a bad joke, as she tried to make sense of the note.

Firstly it needn't be addressed to her, neither could it at all suggest this coming Saturday, and it might be an old forgotten note.

The writing was almost unreadable, scribbled in such a hurry, the ink staining her fingertips as well. She could only conclude it had been written rather recent, despite her objections.

She still tried to reason with it; unable to believe it was addressed to her, as the idea was peculiar. He hadn't actually given her the address to his home? Perhaps it wasn't, and in its place she would find some eccentric museum?

Molly understood him to be precise, and he did not seem one to be negligent. He had given this to her knowingly, or else it would not be in the book.

This was no ordinary exchange, secretly done as well, but perhaps the address wasn't his, and she was reading far more into it.

The sheer idea that he'd give his address to her in this manner shocked her. It didn't necessarily mean anything, as it could just be innocent.

When she roughly opened the pages of the book again, trying to let her mind focus on the words – she came to the conclusion that none of it could be 'innocent'. The book itself gave proof of that, such tales one did not hand to a mere pupil without any intent.

She had heard stories, of course.

Rumours that were whispered about professors and students involved in torrid relationships. Those relationships were always found out, and broken off with dire consequences.

Association with a professor, in an  _indecent_ manner wasn't exactly something anyone would accept, as she could only imagine her granny's watchful eyes turn to her in outright disgust.

And Professor Holmes!

Him of all people!

He who seemed to be so…

No, if she were outright honest he seemed rather… _well_ …several of her female classmates had many words about the man.

Words that she wouldn't have considered at all, hadn't it been for the wicked dreams that kept bothering her, and tearing upon her nerves maddeningly. Now she didn't only have a dream to draw from either. For the way his body stayed so close to her in the train – with his breath upon her skin – made her flush there she lay.

He was her professor!

Of course it was innocent!

She was mad to think anything else, or imply any sort of seduction.

Her hands lingered on the pages of the book. Well-known for its sensational imagery…

Here his  _why_  was now evident, especially when his note was slipped into her textbook.

There could be no mistake.

Yet… _her?_

She was ordinary, unremarkable in every way.

She was not a damsel in a book. She had no cutting remarks to throw back, and she could not understand why he'd pick her.

Perhaps it was that fact entirely – no one would ever assume –  _her_.

No one would ever consider her being embroidered into something so, unexpected. She who did all her assignments on time, who worked diligently to receive high marks in every class, who kept quiet…

This was his attraction, if there were any, and she felt interest fly from her, as it was replaced with anger and disbelief.

Molly Hooper had no intention of being persuaded by pretty books and a clever man. He was her professor – however close he was to her age – it was immoral – but she knew he wouldn't.

He couldn't…

Professor Holmes did not strike her as that man.

But did she truly know him?

No one did.

His workings with the Scotland Yard could all be codswallop, with him trying to seem interesting in their class, to strike fear, and to craft a wonderful enigma about himself.

He was just a man, a grown man, and she was just a girl.

She was ribbing herself if she at all believed he was capable of trying to do anything as such. Molly half-expected to find Toby laughing with her, as he sat purring at the end of the bed.

She felt like she'd gotten thrown through the looking glass, and she was unsure of what she saw.

* * *

Determined she got to class on time, waking at the crack of dawn to ensure she would not be late, taking the book with her, with no intention of finishing it.

She would not be lured into a plot, if that _were_  his intention. Constantly doubting herself would do no good, as she needed to relay her message.

If he had no dubious intentions, then he would not be offended, at all, and then she could ask about the note without trepidation.

Professor Holmes could after all have seeded out a particular branch of students, who he saw fit for extra curricular-activity.

It was with uneasy steps she trod into the half-empty classroom, glancing briefly at him, settling at the back of the class for once, as far away she could.

Having him stare at her would do her no good, though she was aware that one of the girls, Mariah Hemsworth watched her confused, "Why are you sitting up back?" she asked.

Molly's eyes flew towards Holmes who was settled by his desk, staring down at some papers before him, idly rolling up the sleeves of his white shirt, showing off his forearms.

"I just - I wanted to," said Molly bringing up the book for class, putting it on the table, and soon she saw Mariah sprinting forward, taking her place.

She almost huffed in her seat, catching herself for a second, as she couldn't exactly be jealous.

Indeed, maybe she truly had gone mad in believing that Professor Holmes wanted her of all people. Mariah was after all one of the prettiest girls in their class, with her luscious hair that she let fall loosely on her shoulders, with her rosy painted cheeks and lips.

Molly didn't fall into that particular brand, even with her  _supposed_  suitors. She wasn't eye-catching at all, and it did not make any sense that Professor Holmes would want her. Compared to the romantic descriptions of the women in the various books he'd given her – she was plain.

If she would compare herself to one woman, it was Jane Eyre. She fell into that particular category, with her light-brown hair always sat up in a ponytail and ordinary brown eyes.

She didn't have full red lips, did not have a heaving bosom, or flawless soft skin. Quite the opposite in her own opinion, and so it was obvious he'd chosen her out of the sheer fact that she didn't believe herself important.

That had to be it, certainly.

The classroom started to fill up, students taking their seats, some of them peering at her inquiringly, adjusting themselves to their seating, as she kept her eyes cast downwards into her hands.

When the class was full, and the door to the room slammed shut by Holmes she looked up, and found his gaze was not on her.

He seemed disinterested with her sudden shift, absolutely uninterested, if she were entirely honest, "Good morning class," he said with the book in his hand, "Miss Hemsworth, would you mind reading from page 176, for us? Today we are taking on the bard himself, and I am sure you are capable of giving his words justice."

He sounded bored.

Mariah was indeed capable, to Molly's growing frustration, and she tried to dismiss the thought, as she saw Holmes stare raptly at the girl who sang-song the lines out without fault.

_My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;_  
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;  
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;  
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.  
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,  
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;  
And in some perfumes is there more delight  
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.  
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know  
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;  
I grant I never saw a goddess go;  
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:  
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare  
As any she belied with false compare.

"That was sonnet 130 –  _now_  – Miss Hemsworth, do you know what it is about?" said Professor Holmes lowering his brows, a rather blank expression on his face, making Molly tilt her head in confusion.

He seemed to know something, as he leaned slightly forward.

"Oh, err – I suppose – it's about – err – well – obviously he's talking about a woman who's very beautiful…sir" stuttered Mariah forward, uncertainty clinging to her every word.

"Ah," said Holmes leaning back, his back straighter, as his eyes were now on Molly.

She tried to avert his gaze, though her lashes fluttered upwards, and he said, "Miss Hooper – since you and Miss Hemsworth have traded places, would you care to explain this sonnet?"

Molly bit her lip, swallowing slightly, as she felt his message was clear – "The first line, is – my mistress eyes are nothing like the sun – he's mocking other sonnets, sir."

"Why is that?"

"Since everyone speaks so highly of beauty…and they constantly try to go on about how that is the best quality, but he – Shakespeare knew more-," Mariah turned round to her with slits for eyes, " – He didn't want to compare his love to that, for he saw…what she truly is. She is not a goddess, her hair is not so fair, and she's just human, but still – nothing…compares to  _her."_

The look he gave her was indecipherable, only giving a brief nod, before he said, "You are quite right, Miss Hooper. He shows the foolishness of any poet at the time, spinning out lies, and untruths – gasping about a woman's beauty. No woman would believe that." His eyes are now on the class, "Do not let yourself be idiots, if a boy tells you such things. He's most certainly lying and will undoubtedly…"

Some of the boys broke out in laughter, "Yes," said Holmes with a raised brow, which made the laughter die out, "Don't trust a boy, but don't trust a man either."

She felt conflicted there she sat, managing to appreciate him from the distance, and understanding that this was not a simple game, whatever he was playing at.

* * *

He was hurriedly tossing his things into his briefcase, when she finally stood by his desk, and sat the book quietly down, "You have not read it," he said, sounding annoyed, but he wasn't looking at her.

She drew her shoulders back slightly, trying to mask her surprise at his knowing the difference between a read book, or not, and the second she intended to open her mouth, "You do not look tired, Miss Hooper."

Shutting her mouth, she stared at him, "I – I -,"

"Leave," he said smacking his suitcase shut, soon clutching it in his hands, the nerves on his skin protruding.

"Yes, sir," she said meekly, walking off without looking back, only hearing him sigh in the distance.

* * *

She did not know what front he was putting, for he was acting so abusive in class, that whatever anyone said was ignored, or they were called an idiot for disrupting his  _methods._

His mood seemed to shift like the weather had, for now the red leaves were trodden down into the ground, and the trees bare.

Mornings were unbearably cold and so was he.

He did not give her another book, as she saw him with a hardened expression on the tube instead.

Molly knew that she had in some ways refused him, for that was evident by his sudden anger, and she knew she had done the right thing.

But, nevertheless, she did not feel good about it.

Of all things she felt guilty, but the blame did not lay with her. This was not her fault, and she felt herself reading her granny's sermons with a fiercer voice.

He was making it seem like it was her burden, like her not accepting his invitation, which was without a doubt not a harmless one with his behaviour – that  _she'd_  done wrong.

She had done right in refusing him, though her dreams worsened by every turn, and she wished he would leave the school if he were so thrown off by her.

Every time she saw him out of the corner of her eyes, she saw sadness. Holmes made his activities glaringly obvious now, not taking to the roof for his cigarettes, and neither did he smile at any of them.

He had changed, or perhaps he had just revealed his true nature to them. But she knew, by the glares he threw around the room, that there was softness in his eyes…

And, then she understood, and she felt like a fool – he was lonely.

He was lonely, and he'd spotted her loneliness as well.

* * *

She closed the book in her hands, staring unblinkingly on her snoring granny's face, almost laughing. The old woman had fallen asleep, like she did on occasion, and it was a benediction.

Carefully Molly sat aside the book, taking to explore the length of the room. Passing the dusty piano – untouched since her grandfather's death.

She leapt gingerly in front of the bookcase, hazarding a look towards her still-sleeping grandmother, as she tried to find any book – just one. It needed to be only one book, really, though she hoped to find it, as she'd seen it there once.

Grinning she slipped it out, placing it into her rucksack, before she continued with her loud reading, rousing her granny by almost shouting out a word.

Her grandmother jumped in her chair, blinking wearily, rubbing at her temples, "I think we'll call it a day."

It was ridiculous, it was very wrong, but she knew that he would need to be shocked somehow. And this was certainly enough, she supposed, or so hoped. The fact that her granny owned the book was enough in itself, and she knew how tricky it was to find such books in the library. Being told she was being – silly – would not do her any good at all; so, she had taken desperate measures to provoke him out of his stupor.

At least she hoped she would.

* * *

Plotting did not suit her, agitating her beyond belief, as she found herself almost squeamish and unsettled by his behaviour.

He was turning worse by every class.

Students were abusive behind his back, all wondering what had gotten into him, and she knew this was her only chance.

His back was to her in the tube, and she settled down on one of the available seats, clearing her throat, as she brought out the book.

She fixed her eyes on the pages, and tried to seem absolutely enraptured, despite wanting to look up at him. When her eyes tempted such a thing – he wasn't standing in front of her anymore.

Molly sighed, closing the book, as she peered around for him.

No dark curls were in sight, and she felt a greater loss than she'd ever presume.

Of course it wouldn't work, it was the stupidest of ideas, and she had been rash. Obviously, he was laughing at her idiotic attempt.

Getting off at her station, she walked out stuffing the book back in her rucksack, intending to give it back to her granny.

Her steps were slow and measured there she walked, seeing the large white posh building where her granny lived, when she felt a warm hand grab hers.

She shrieked of sudden alarm, but someone smothered his or her hand upon her mouth stifling her cry.

She was about to fight back, until she recognised his steely blue-eyed gaze.

He had her pushed against the brick wall of the building, shielded from the view of onlookers, as a tree hid them away, "Don't – scream," he said with a low voice, his closeness unnerving her, his usually strict tie drawn loosely around his neck, two buttons of his shirt undone.

He looked a mess, but he released his hand on her lips.

"Sir-," she started wide-eyed, shocked by his sudden appearance, "I thought you'd gotten off."

His eyes narrowed amusedly, his mouth quirking upwards; "I can hide in plain sight, Miss Hooper – unlike some."

"Oh…ok," she said nervously, as one of his hands was leaning against the brick-wall.

He did not say anything, neither did she know what to expect, for he only stared at her. Like he was trying to understand something, and she could hardly call herself puzzling.

His breath reached her face, blue eyes dropping to her lips, as she saw his chest heaving for breath. He was so close now, the dark look in his eyes making her flush, and she wondered if she should speak.

She did not know what to say, or do. Molly only returned the look, taking in his face properly for once, and found a flicker of hope in his eyes. He seemed to be hovering in front of her with resolve, his face edging closer to hers, as his mouth was slightly parted.

She stood in awe.

But he suddenly leapt back, almost unsurely, unlike anything she'd seen him do.

His bravado had dropped, he looked almost apprehensive, "Miss Hooper – you should return your book to your grandmother – before she finds it missing," he said with gritted teeth unable to look at her, until he started to stride off.

"Sir…I was wondering," she said licking her lips, and he turned to her with raised brows.

"Yes?"

"Just, err – what exactly – the note, you see?"

He looked bewildered for a second, until understanding dawned upon his face, "My home is always open to you,  _Molly_." With that he was gone, leaving her with flaming red cheeks, as she leaned against the brick-wall for support.

It took her ages to get through any passage at her granny's, as her mind ambled back to the way his voice had broken upon saying her name.

Molly returned  _Don Juan_  to its shelf mutedly, knowing that it was in some ways too late, for without even really touching her – she was already his.


	5. Temptation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you AussieMaelstrom for being a wonderful beta! I hope you've all had a wonderful holiday, possibly on-going, as it is for me. I apologise for the delayed chapter - I blame Christmas. My last weeks have been filled with family/friends/birthday/etc. So read on!
> 
> PS: An anon reviewer asked what age they are. Molly is 16-17 and Sherlock is 26-27.

  
**Temptation:**  The act of tempting or the condition of being tempted.

She had barely been able to sleep, her fingers busy caressing the bit of parchment with his address (kept hidden in her well-worn copy of 'Treasure Island'). Molly did not know exactly what to do with this piece of information, or the understanding she had managed to comprehend, which had taken place between her and Professor Holmes. Or at least she assumed there was an understanding, though – an understanding of what? No, the more she tried to think of it, the more flustered and confused she got. Her breakfast was evading her mouth constantly, as she drew back the piece of toast from her lips amidst her wondering.

Pursed lips, and furrowed brows were what she greeted her father with, as he strode into the kitchen stretching out his large arms. "You're up early?" he said with a yawn, giving a tiny pleased mutter, as he saw that she'd sorted out the breakfast for them both (an unusual occurrence for she was always the last to wake up).

"I couldn't sleep," she said slathering her toast with more butter, hoping that a thicker layer would tempt it inside her mouth, or at least give the implication that she was indeed partaking in some bit of breakfast.

She had already drunk two cups of coffee, both of which she felt in her stomach and head, buzzing wildly through her body.

"Something bothering you?" asked her father, eyeing her as he poured himself a cup of coffee.

Molly started automatically chewing at her lips, before she ducked behind her cup of coffee, "No," she mumbled.

He settled by the kitchen table, eyed the spread, and the morning's newspaper, which she'd folded on the table for him to read, "Right," he said with a raised brow, soon hiding behind his newspaper, "So, I'd be wrong in assuming that this has anything to with your boyfriend, then?"

The ever so light nature of the remark, casually thrown out, made Molly spray the newspaper with the coffee she had in her mouth.

Wide-eyed, she stood up from her chair, scraping it loudly against the floor, as she scrambled for a cloth.

Her father's face had tiny bits of coffee, besides his now ruined paper, but he took it all with great humour, "I suspected as much," he said, while she quietly cleared off the paper and wiped on the kitchen counter.

She looked at him briefly, but he didn't seem deterred by her silence, "Your gran's been ringing me up lately talking about some lad that's got you distracted, and to be entirely honest I don't disagree with her. You've been coming home with foreign books and what-not, sitting up late-,"

"I always do that-," she said, only to realise she was still trying to clean an already spotless table, making her skip off to the sink quickly to wash up the used cloth, " – I'm just…getting a bit bored reading for gran."

"Ok, I'll buy that a bit for now, if you want," he said with his lips pressed together, as she settled down at the kitchen table again, feeling relieved that he wasn't pressing about it anymore.

She never suspected he'd take part in the questioning that her grandmother had indulged in, "Does his name begin with an S?" he said making her full of alarm.

Her brows disappeared into her hairline, as she found herself stuttering for a reply. Molly's mind raced, for whatever answer she gave now depended solely on what he might have  _heard._  She felt beyond embarrassed, wishing it were just a coincidence, as her mind drew forth the most popular of names from her favourite childhood book, "Jim!"

He looked momentarily confused, "Sounds familiar, have I met the lad?"  _No, but he had made all the voices_ , and in some ways she suspected he had.

"No," she said with an uneasy smile, loathing herself for having told such a lie, as she certainly did not have a boyfriend, and he certainly did not go by the name of  _Jim._

"Someone at your school, then?"

"Err - oh – no – he goes to Susan's school!"

"That's nice," said her dad, "Lives a bit further away, then? Good –  _good_."

Molly found herself blinking at that, "How's that good?" She couldn't help herself from asking, despite Jim being imaginary.

"I'm off to Frank's this weekend. He's got some car-trouble again, and wanted me to sort it out for him, for some pounds obviously, and I thought that would be nice, you know."

She suddenly found herself being reminded of a certain address, which jumped fairly quickly into her mind without much difficulty.

"You'll be gone the whole weekend?" she said rather flabbergasted.

"Yes - so no visitors – no – Tim."

"Jim," she corrected him.

"Right – just – don't have him coming round here, right?"

She shook her head at that, half-laughing of the assumption, despite the uneasy feeling that arose in her stomach, "Dad, we're not-,"

"I know  _you're_  not, and I'm half in my mind to take you with me, but your granny told me not to."

"She did?" said Molly gaping.

"Yes, told me it would be good for you to be by yourself a bit, and it's only a weekend after all. It's not like I won't come rushing home the very instant I hear something dodgy going round."

Molly felt the corners of her mouth turning up at the very idea, though she felt a rather familiar prickly sensation take place inside her stomach, scrambling her insides, "I'll be fine," she said with a smile.

"You're not worried about being alone? I remember that one time you were quite sure our neighbours tried to break in," he said rather seriously, with his elbows on the table, as he ignored his food.

"When I was seven?" she asked with a giggle.

He scoffed loudly in return, soon slapping two slices of bread together with a bit of ham, which he took a great bite of, "Fine, you've got the cat, and the landline, I'll be out of your hair – since you've grown and become a lady."

He seemed rather cross, though she saw the familiar twinkle in his eyes. She stood up from her chair and gave him a swift kiss on the forehead, "I'll be fine dad, promise."

"I know," he grunted, his mouth bursting with food.

* * *

She had packed her things trying not to consider that she would be facing Professor Holmes in class. His behaviour the evening before was distracting her senseless, all of her thoughts going to the dark haired man, and the way he'd behaved.

He had done nothing, yet it was as if he had.

Molly was not experienced when it came to boys,  _or_ men. Her knowledge stemmed from books, some filled with intricate illustrations and scientific names to the male  _bits_.

She had extensive knowledge regarding the human body, as she found the workings of it very interesting, but the concept of uttering the word 'penis' without smiling a little was rather tricky. Girls weren't supposed to know such a word either, despite most of her year having gotten their knowledge regarding the male anatomy due to a flasher some year's back.

His escapades were short-lived thanks to the police, and their education cut short, but they were all intrigued. Molly found herself in the end roaming medical books, trying to find out more, and was astonished to find very little information about the female body.

She had already familiarized herself with her own body of course, but she would have found it comforting to find more than just fertilising in the books, "We don't have _those_  kind of books, dear," the librarian had told her sheepishly.

From the hushed conversations that she heard at school, it was obvious that no male anatomy was the same, "It went to the left, really," she heard once, which only intrigued her more, despite being terrified.

She heard enough girls in her school going on about their sexual exploits, while they hung around in the lavatories smoking cigarettes.

Molly had only ever been kissed once, and it was a rather unsettling experience. She had been twelve, and went wandering with the neighbour's son Oliver who when they'd gotten far enough away from their parents had promptly bitten her mouth in what was supposed to be a kiss. It took her some years before she understood it wasn't supposed to be like that, and she didn't wish to count it as her first.

Her only 'sexual' experience had been a man forcibly grabbing her one breast for  _support_ in the tube, which resulted in her breast being tender for a couple of days.

These were not incidents she would call at all pleasant, or memorable, and her stolen moments with Professor Holmes certainly went higher up on the list of experiences.

Molly had found herself contemplating the 'poetry', the 'subjects' and all that Professor Holmes had gone through, almost concluding that maybe it was for 'her'. A remarkable thought, one she kept trying to disbelieve, but she could not any more. No, she couldn't. The way he had looked at her, his blue eyes fixed on her face with such a look. She could not describe the look even if she tried, it seemed like hunger, like sadness, and it made her stomach crawl to think of it.

No one had ever done so before.

No one.

The coming Saturday loomed over her, her father's absence making her conclude that the _moment_  had come, but she did not know entirely what that moment might be.

His home was open to her, and to her alone, that much she understood now, and it was an idea that she could not forget. But she did not know if she could allow herself to do such a thing either, for this her father feared, despite her heart soaring happily upon the idea.

She'd spent the rest of the classes half-listening, her chin in her hand, as her eyes lingered out of the windows instead of focusing on the blackboards.

His lesson was of course the last of the day, occupying her thoughts, as she both dreaded and longed to see him. Molly did not know how she should handle the situation, or if she would in fact handle it at all.

There was nothing she could do in the confines of his classroom, least of all speak to him about his proffered 'note', which she wished to bring up with him accordingly.

'Always open' gave her time, but how much time? She needed to know, most of all she wanted to see him, wanted to know if he would be different in class again, back to his more pleasant self.

Molly entered the classroom for 'English' quite early, sitting down in her regular seat eyeing the room with trepidation.

He wasn't there yet, though there was a cup of coffee placed on the desk. Her eyes were immovable upon the cup, while her fingers drummed on her desk. Hurriedly she brought out her books and notebook, which she rifled open to a blank page.

She started to draw on the empty space, wasting paper, and giving her restless mind some relief, as the rest of the class filed in – he was still not there.

Molly was vaguely aware that she was drawing hands, though she did not wish to put too much thought as to why.

Silence fell over the class – her heart jumped to her throat – and she looked up as the classroom door banged shut.

There were no dark curls, no perceptive blue eyes, or ironed shirt, as it was a short blonde haired woman, "Good afternoon class," she said taking several steps in, her heels clicking on the floor, as she folded her hands at her front.

She pursed her red lips, "I'm Mary…Morstan," she said with a slight nod, "And I will be taking over for Professor Holmes today, as he is ill. Hopefully he will have recovered by Monday, but that remains to be seen."

* * *

Toby was resting on her stomach, while she lay staring up at the ceiling from her bed. Her father had left hours ago, forbidding her to spend the entire day in bed, but Molly found little to get her out of her stupor.

She couldn't stomach the idea of food, neither did any books give her any relief, and she was more tempted to return to sleep than anything. Unfortunately sleep was evading her as well, being only a tempting mistress on the edge of her mind and body.

Her thoughts returned to where they'd been lingering most of the morning, and the previous days – Professor Holmes.

He had not been at school, and that was troubling.

This was the first time he'd been ill during the many months he'd worked there. And the idea that he'd get sick right after plainly offering her, 'himself', hadn't made her feel any easier, making her draw the conclusion that he'd taken back his offer.

It was better if she stayed in doors anyway, as rain was pouring outside. Molly dug herself deeper into her covers, causing Toby to leap from her stomach, leaving her to herself, as her thoughts returned to Holmes.

She wished she knew him, wished she understood how his mind worked, and what he was in fact thinking. Everything would be easier if she did, except she was left in the dark rummaging for an answer.

Molly knew what was really bothering her, and it was because she didn't know if she should go or not. The offer was there, and she knew the address by heart. It was all arranged for her benefit, but then again he was apparently ill.

Groaning with frustration she crossed her arms, trying desperately not to think about him, about the clever and rather 'beautiful' man. She threw the covers over her head, digging her face into her pillow, as she tried to ignore the rise in her.

The more she tried, the more she twisted herself into her covers, making a cocoon of them, and in the end her hands finally found the warm centre between her thighs.

She was always filled with guilt and lust and wonder when she did such a thing, but the hot feverish dreams had taken over so much lately, it was as if her body moved of its own accord.

Gently she touched herself, imagining it was his fingers that stroked her instead of her own, and that it was he who spread her legs apart. Imagination was her friend, for she remembered words she'd read, those he'd read, and those enticing whispers in the dark done by his _shadow._ At this very moment, she tried to imagine she was not in her girlish room attempting to dissolve all worry from her body. All it took was the faint memory of the smell of him, of his firm body pressed against hers, and she was shuddering silently underneath her covers.

In the end, when her breath turned steady once more she rolled around in the bed, and stared out of the window, watching the droplets of water hit the glass. Molly had never felt such a wave of pleasure hit her before, all of her previous fumbles were fickle, and she knew it was due to the sheer idea of him.

She sighed, finally ripping off the covers from her bed, as she had finally made her decision.

She was not staying home tonight.

* * *

Molly had left an appropriate amount of food out for Toby before she ran out, the weather having cleared up making her path easier to take.

She wore her coat nonetheless, as it was a tad nippy, but she took her steps with confidence. If she had stayed at home she would have been driven mad, and all of her whimsy would be subdued with a small visit after all.

She walked the streets with hasty steps, finally reaching the door, giving the doorbell a ring, until it opened to her, "Oh, Molly," said the maid Annabelle, "What are you doing here on a Saturday?"

Annabelle soon guided her to the sitting room of which her grandmother was occupying, the older woman was sat throwing her a steely gaze, "What do you want?"

"I just thought I'd visit," said Molly with a brief smile, even though she felt the restlessness in her.

"On a Saturday?" said her grandmother suspiciously.

Unannounced visits were never a thing either of them did, always keeping to their assigned Thursday and Sunday, and Molly felt the sudden anxiety swell up, "I can – I can go if you want," she said feeling the urge to do so fill her immediately, though her granny just tutted.

"Sit," said the old woman.

Sitting down, the woman was giving her an once-over, "Why are you in your school uniform?" she asked.

Molly looked down on her clothing, self-consciously pulling at her skirt. The logical explanation was that she didn't have much else to wear, though she didn't feel like saying it, "I forgot," she said with ease.

"Right," said her granny doubtfully resting her hands on a cane, before she leant back in her chair, "Do you need money, then?"

She blinked, "No."

"I doubt that."

"I honestly just wanted to visit," she said lying again.

"Where's your father?"

"He's working."

The woman snorted, clearly not convinced, "Right," she said again, "This isn't about the boy, then – this  _Jim_?"

Her father had told, of all things. She had hoped he wouldn't give that away, but she supposed he was under pressure, "No," she said quickly recovering.

"Doubtful – he's not crossed you, has he?"

"No, no - he hasn't."

"These young boys," said her grandmother with a grimace, standing up, soon pacing in the room, until she stood in front of the dusty piano – her fingers hovering over the keys, "These boys – they're not like they used to make them." Her grandmother's expression was strangely soft, "Your grandfather however - he was a  _man_."

Puzzled, Molly kept quiet, wondering what her grandmother was getting at, "He taught me how to play the piano," she said looking at Molly with an odd expression.

Her mother had mentioned it once, though she never really said anything more, "Off you go to your idiot boy, then, I'm sure you want to see him. Using me as an excuse won't help you."

"I – I was only-,"

"No, no you're not. I know a liar," spat her grandmother.

She was shown out after that, sent on her way by the maid who said, "It's not a good day for you to have come, Miss Hooper. She always gets like this," before she shut the door on her.

Even for her grandmother it was odd behaviour, and Molly foolish enough to have not brought an umbrella stared at the grey clouds above.

It was best to go home, she knew that, but the address was still etched in her mind.

She knew she wanted to go, just to see if he was okay, after all, and that wasn't the worst of ideas.

In her gut she knew that was a terrible excuse, though it was the one she'd give if he asked, for he was probably sick after all, and wouldn't welcome her in…

* * *

Running to fight the rain proved futile, for her clothes and coat were soaked, and she almost went home by the time she found his street. She slowed down, huddling further into her coat as she blinked against the downpour. She was an idiot. This was a terrible idea, and he was most certainly going to send her away. Yet she kept walking, striding against the wind and rain, until she was lingering outside his door.

Taking a deep breath she rang the doorbell.

She heard nothing.

No footsteps.

No voices.

Ringing again with trembling cold fingers, she held the button in longer, pressing it harder, but the same response came.

There was no one home.

Perhaps he was so ill that he couldn't even come down?

She rang again, hoping he'd answer, but no one came.

Molly looked down at her soaked shoes that squelched loudly as she started to walk away. But every step she took, she felt that she was never going to see him again. Every breath was a quivering one, and she felt like a stupid schoolgirl with idiotic fancies.

Stopping up to catch her breath, she fought against her better judgment so she wouldn't run back to hammer soundly at the door.

Intending to walk on, she became aware that the water didn't seem to drip onto her, but she heard the patter of the rain. Looking up she saw an umbrella held above her head, and she was confused for a few seconds, until a warm hand softly gripped by her by the shoulder, steering her back.

She stared at him, half-gaping, "I – I thought you were sick, sir."

"Case," he said with a peculiar gleam in his eye, seeming amused, "I hadn't expected you before 6 o'clock, Miss Hooper."

"Case?" she parroted foolishly, as he pushed her forward.

"Yes," he only said, forcing the umbrella handle into her hands, as he started to unlock his door.

He didn't seem to be rushing his actions whatsoever; neither did he glance around himself worryingly, like she would have thought. She half-expected him to do so, worried anyone might spot them together, but he didn't seem at a loss like she was, "Are you coming, Molly?"

His usage of her name spurred her inside, hurriedly shutting the umbrella, as she shook water onto the carpet. Professor Holmes removed his tweed-jacket, hanging it up, as she slowly shifted out of her wet coat. She held onto her arms shakily, while he looked at her bemused. "Unfortunately I do not own woman's clothing," he said, "You will have to do with mine." He sprang up the steps with his long legs, while she stood by downstairs.

"I'll be alright, sir," she said loudly.

He stopped in his stride, "Call me Sherlock. Now, come along Molly." She followed him upstairs, prompted by her own curiosity, and need of being in his presence.

Wooden floors creaked underneath her feet, while she dripped on everything, unable to argue when he handed her a towel and a dry robe, "The bath is through the kitchen," he said without looking at her, hands on his hips.

She walked through, catching sight of the bookcase dominating an entire wall. Passing through the kitchen she spotted a chemistry set on the kitchen table, before she finally got to the bath.

The robe he handed her feels like pure silk, certainly not from regular teaching wages, and not one for any woman. It's dark blue and soft underneath her fingertips. Holding it close to her face, she takes a deep breath, and obviously it smells like him. It's a masculine scent, appealing and not harsh in any way.

Blushing she slowly removes her wet clothing, trying to dry herself at the same time, as her hair clings to her face. She almost doesn't recognise the reflection she sees in the mirror, as if she looks older. It is but the circumstance that is unfamiliar she wagers then and there, nerves coiling in her stomach.

Slipping on the robe, she tries to shake off the fact that he's worn it, and she busies herself with folding her clothes. Molly lets the towel sit on her head, hoping her hair will dry.

And with a wobbly breath she walks out of the bathroom, trying to pretend she hasn't remembered every detail of the interior, "I made tea," he said loudly from the sitting room.

Her head turns briefly round, there's a half-open door that leads towards his bedroom and she jolts her head back.

Walking out, she spots the tea on a small table, between two large chairs, one of which he's sitting on, with his eyes motionless on the papers in his lap.

He looks messier than usual, with several shirt buttons undone and his tie hanging loosely, and she fidgets at the remembrance of his appearance, until she settles down in the chair opposite him (settling her clothes on the floor).

He doesn't say anything, no comment, no gleam in his eye, and she wonders if she has intruded. Perhaps she isn't as welcome after all, but she takes an already filled cup of tea anyway to fight the cold in her body. Finding comfort in the porcelain, while keeping her eyes elsewhere, she finds her voice after several long sips, "Sir-,"

He clears his voice loudly, she realises he's reprimanding her, and she catches his eyes that are on her now, "Sherlock…"

His name feels unfamiliar on her lips.

The corner of his mouth turn upwards, as he settles his papers aside, "Yes?" His attention is fully on her now, leaning properly back into his chair, as the spark in his eye flickers forth.

She stares at his face now, allowing herself to do so, or at least braving the storminess that are lurking in his eyes, "I'm sorry, that I came early…"

"I didn't expect you to come," he said sounding almost wistful.

Molly almost doesn't know what to say at that, for his eyes have gone dark, and have travelled away from her face, "Oh," she said attempting to fill the silence, to say at least something similar to sensible, for she almost didn't come.

"Obviously I was wrong," he said, his eyes wandering now, glancing towards her legs, which she quickly tucks underneath herself, "Are you afraid of me?"

He says it slowly, the words hanging in the air for a while.

"No," she said, but the truth was she wasn't scared.

But she was nervous, "I'll just go then, when the rain stops."

His hands are steepled underneath his chin, his expression curious, "You can stay," he said. He's not asking, it sounds more like a reply, than anything, "Your father isn't home, is he?"

Gaping at him, she shuts her mouth, before nodding, "He's at a friends."

"And you do not like being alone."

It's not a question, though she nods anyway. She can pretend all she likes, but she doesn't enjoy being alone. There's something comforting with having another breathing human being in another room, grunting and making the occasional sound, louder than a soft mewl in the dark.

"There are worse things than the dark," he said with a distant expression, eyes slightly narrowed, before they flash towards her again.

"Like what, sir?"

His brows knit together and she realises her mistake, but he doesn't correct her, his eyes only turning dark, "Drink up, Molly."

Lifting the cup to her lips, she drinks the perfectly sweetened tea, emptying the contents; overly aware of her own breathing, as he turns silent in front of her, but he is looking at her.

His eyes are unwavering, fixed on her face, and she finds herself almost unable to look him in the eye. She sets aside the empty cup, swallowing, and she feels that she's made a racket.

It's her breath and his, her movement and his stillness, which are the only sounds she hears. The rain is still on going outside, muffled sounds of the splatter on the windows, and she wishes that he'd tell her, that he'd explain what is going on. That he'll do anything, something – "Shall I?" he said breaking the silence.

Her eyes turn to him, and she stares at him perplexed. He takes off from his seat, soon grasping a book from the bookshelves, and she recognises its cover,  _Lady Chatterley's Lover._  His cup of tea is untouched on the table, heat rising from it, as he shuffles through the pages, stopping finally.

"Ours is essentially a tragic age, so we refuse to take it tragically-," his voice is loud and clear, like in the classroom, though it sounds different, stirring various emotions in her, which she rather not linger on, "The cataclysm has happened, we are among the ruins, we start to build up new little habitats, to have new little hopes." Relaxing into her chair, she tries to listen only to his voice, shutting her eyes briefly, "It is rather hard work, there is now no smooth road into the future…but we go round, or scramble over the obstacles."

He exhales, "We've got to live, no matter how many skies have fallen."

* * *

She opens her eyes, feeling her body groan against the sheer idea of waking. And as she stirs she feels the unfamiliar sheets over her, besides the silk around her body. This is not her room, nor her bed. Her breath hitches in her throat, seeing the darkness through a window, the rain still spraying the glass. Getting up on unsteady feet, with a stifled yawn, she walks barefoot out of his bedroom, until she walks back to the sitting room.

A fire is in the hearth, the only source of light in the room, as he is sat with closed eyes on the chair. She must have fallen asleep, she almost giggles, but she sees the expression on his face - innocent. He let her take his bed, and he, by the look of him – did not intend to join her.

Securing the robe around her, she walks with slow steps on the carpet, until she is stood before him.

This is him - in his most private of moments, and she finds herself bending down on her knees to look up at his face properly.

There are no worried lines on his face, no tension, no anger, and it makes her feel at ease.

He does not intend to use her, not like she had feared at all, and without thinking her hand reaches for his face.

He stirs underneath her palm, his face warm, against her cooler palm, and his eyes open with a blaze.

She almost takes her hand back, though she lets it stay – feeling him take a breath underneath her touch.

His eyes are confused, a muddled mirage of blue, and she's wondering if she's dreaming this.

Molly is not usually this brave, but she doesn't remove her hand, despite thinking she should. Instead, she leans forward, feeling his breath on her face, feeling the nerves build in her stomach, as she knows what she's about to do.

Crossing this line will erase all the others, and she knows it, but she wants to. It is chaste, short, and hurried – she feels her face is steeped in red when she pulls away from his lips, letting her hand drop to her side.

His expression is merely puzzled, not giving away any other response, and she almost resolves to leave, taking to stand up, but he takes hold of her wrist firmly.

She stares down at him, torn between shock and want, and he pulls her into his lap without a word. The warmth of his body is overwhelming, as he wraps his hands around her waist, his palms on the soft fabric.

She leans back into him, feeling his breath on her neck, his curls tickling her, and he whispers, "Shall I begin?"

She doesn't know what he means, though he releases a heavy hand on her waist, bringing up the book again.

Time passes effortlessly, without unease, for she loses count at the words that cause her to relax on his lap. His voice is low and deep, his words heavy with meaning, as her hands grip at the arms of the chair for support.

She is afraid of touching him, more than anything, though she could not imagine doing so with anyone else, as his steady voice continues. Willingly she shuts her eyes, sleep almost grasping at her, letting her release a small sigh, at which he pauses in his reading, but he continues. The book has been ordinary to this point, for how long he has read she does not know; neither does she manage to grasp every word.

Slowly the mood alters, her eyes flicker open, as she feels an unfamiliar pressure underneath her.

_She lay quite still, in a sort of sleep, in a sort of dream._

She feels him breathe heavily underneath her, feels the push and pull of his warm chest, and the hand that resides comfortably on her thigh. His hands are large, long fingers, which she stares at.

_Then she quivered as she felt his hand groping softly, yet with queer thwarted clumsiness, among her clothing._

He does not pause in his reading, as his hand slides upwards, passing the silk robe, roaming on the soft skin between her legs, and she takes an intake of breath.

_Yet the hand knew, too, how to unclothe her where it wanted._

His hand stills just skirting on the edge, but his words go on.

_He drew down the thin silk sheath, slowly, carefully, right down and over her feet._

When she feels his hand attempt to draw back, she grabs it, giving it a small tender squeeze, before withdrawing hers again.

Taking a deep breath, before continuing his reading, his hand slides between her thighs.

_Then with a quiver of exquisite pleasure he touched the warm soft body, and touched her navel for a moment in a kiss._

The touches are brief, almost ticklish, and she almost squirms, though she feels the hardness of him underneath her twitch perceptively.

It's unmistakable, but he doesn't push her away.

Carefully, his hand grazes the fabric of her knickers, and she feels her skin flush deeper. He withdraws only briefly, teasingly, pondering on the soft skin between her thighs, as he draws one finger slowly on the fabric.

_And he had to come in to her at once, to enter the peace on earth of her soft, quiescent body._

She whimpers, unable to keep herself silent, and suddenly the book is thrown aside with a thud on the floor. Hand now free, he brings it up to caress her breast softly through the thin silk layer, as the other slides carefully on top of her now damp knickers.

Overwhelmed she leans her head back on his shoulder, feeling him touch her where no one ever has, except herself. There is confidence in the strokes; the touches make her skin tingle, and her body flush with desire.

His fingers slide into her wet folds, slow and deliberate.

Sounds she'd never heard before are uttered from her mouth, throaty, devoid of any meaning, but he removes his hands – making her feel utterly dissatisfied with his sudden retreat. Instead she finds a finger underneath her chin, making her turn to face him with wide brown eyes, as his lips take hers.

He mimics her chaste kiss, making her lean down to his face; withdrawing briefly so she can see the upward quirk of his mouth. Then she is drawn to him once more, this kiss is longer, with several nips in between, her head angling to the side slightly, so she has easier access to his lips.

She feels warmth spread through her from head to toe. Her head is a dizzy mess, and even more so, when he parts her lips. What was once chaste is deep, fuelled with longing and desire that she does not know how to account for. He starts to stand up, and soon her feet are connected to the floor, grounding her, but she cannot will herself to remove her lips from his.

Her hands reach up to his shoulders for secure footing, sliding around his neck, as she draws him down to her. A deep laugh escapes his mouth, and it thrills her.

She's never heard him give such a laugh before, never in class, and she's happy that she is the one who made him do so, even more so when his arms wrap around her waist, pulling her closer.

He tastes like heaven, like salt, like man, unfamiliar things, that cause giddiness to overtake her entirely. "Molly," he said between breaths, and she finds herself disentangling from him, taking a step back, aware of her surroundings.

"Oh," she said, embarrassed, taking to stare down at her bare feet, "I've just, never – well – sorry, sir."

She peeks up at him from under her brows, his stare is enquiring, and he briefly smiles, "Don't get  _too_  carried away."

She instantly stares at his trousers, and his expression is that of exasperation, "That is nothing," he said, settling down with a great breath back into his chair.

He pulls her hand, aware of her sudden worry, folding it into his large one, and staring at it, "I did not ask for this," he said with a distant expression.

"What?" she said trying to calm down by breathing slowly, thinking only of the way his hand holds hers – warm and steady.

Blue eyes meet hers, frowning, he said, "Sentiment."

She doesn't understand, neither does she disentangle her hand from his, but she only longs for his lips on hers again. He seems to know her thoughts, his grip firmer on her hand, "I can kiss you in bed," he said breaking the silence, with his blue eyes piercing hers.

* * *

He takes her there, by hand, pulling her along slowly through the rooms, as he stops by the door. She walks towards the bed, settling down on the edge looking at him, and he shuts the bedroom door behind himself slowly, letting it creak. With parted lips, she takes in his unreadable face, and he strides towards her with long steps until he stops. Suddenly he is on his knees, his head on her lap.

Molly is surprised, but she lets her fingers tangle themselves in his hair. His soft muffled breath stays on her lap, warming her thighs, and minutes pass with him just laying there, heavy on her lap. She is not entirely certain what to say, though it finally comes to her.

Breaking the silence,  _"Sherlock…"_

The transformation is instant; her back is on the bed, her breathing heavy, as he unwraps her clothing, parting the dressing grown from her, and letting air touch her body.

She's never been naked like this, so observed. He's taking in every detail, like she is much more than she seems on top of his bed, and that takes her breath away.

He is above her, his face intent and serious, and soon his mouth takes in parts of her body. First her lips, hovering down towards her neck, then between her breasts, then suckling at a nipple that is taut at his attentions, and he soon has her legs spread with his face burrowed between them.

She is worried at what he sees, almost closing her legs, though he has gripped her ankles, keeping her open and bare to him.

He leans in and kisses her there.

She gaps in shock for his kiss is hot, flooding her body, and his tongue swirls in her heat. She can only dig her fingers into the sheets of his bed, her eyes rolling back into her head, as his mouth laps her up.

His hand goes from gripping her ankles to roaming upwards her legs smoothly, soon clinging to her waist, pulling her closer to his face.

His mouth his sizzling, causing waves of emotions to flow through her body, until she cries out of pleasure, unlike any other. Minutes past; time, reason all dissipated from her, as her body laid boneless on the bed.

He is sitting besides her, his hand stroking her flushed body, and she felt her previous nerves disappear.

When she found her voice, small and tired, she asked, "Is it always this…this…good?"

Hand splayed out on her stomach, his face soon hovered above her face, dark curls tickling her forehead he murmured, "No."

He must have seen the worry in her eyes, the way her trembling hands drew the silk robe towards her body, but he stilled her hands, "I have never derived pleasure from the act, but with…" She stops her fidgeting, for the word is already out there, and hangs unsaid between them.

"Why?"

He changes at that question, blinking at her, his face turning sad, as he sits on the edge of the bed – his back facing her instead, "You should sleep," he said with a low voice, "It's late."

"But-," she protests the minute his weight leaves the bed, and he strides towards the door, "Until tomorrow. Goodnight, Molly."

The door opens and shuts, the distance between them feels large somehow, as she hears the sounds of him breathing outside the bedroom door. She wonders if it is taking him all his strength not to return, but sleep takes her despite her racing thoughts.

At least she isn't alone.


	6. Learning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lo behold an update, love all the reviews! You're all so lovely. AussieMaelstrom continues to be an awesome beta, but I might have made a mess of it this time around. My brain got the better of me and tried to re-write, ugh. Thank you for continuing reading this story. Be aware that there are only in total 13 chapters. I will try to post everything in January.

 

  
**Learning:**  the act or process of acquiring knowledge or skill.

No terrible unrest waited for her that night, no furious dreams, no long sighs, but she still awoke with a shudder. She felt like she had been observed, truly seen, and she knew not in what light. Sunlight jarred her eyes open, though they quickly slid shut to the temptation of continuing her dreamless sleep, her hands grabbing fistfuls of her duvet, as she rolled around in the bed. She recognised then that her fear of squashing Toby was for nothing, for while her limbs were invigorating themselves awake once more - she remembered these were not her sheets.

This was not her bed.

Neither was she wearing her striped pyjamas either.

It was her skin instead that felt the soft caress of the material surrounding her.

She sat up at that, staring wide-eyed around the room.

She is in his bedroom.

Professor Holmes' bedroom.

_Sherlock's_  bedroom.

He is not there, nor is the other pillow crumpled at her side, and she suddenly feels terribly small. It is not an unfamiliar feeling, though she had hoped he would have risked disturbing her, especially as she was mindful of last night's activities. A blush rose so quickly in her cheeks at the thought that she feels like mumbling an apology to the room.

When she manages to blink away her confusion, she spots her uniform folded on a chair. It takes her a brief moment to realise, amidst slipping out of the bed keeping the sheet snugly around her shape, that her clothes have been cleaned.

She fingers the dry fabric, picking her blouse up to smell the pleasant detergent. There is no clock in the bedroom, no way of telling how long she's slept, but she feels like she has slept forever.

For a few minutes she stands, comfortable in just the sheet, until she decides to dress. It is when she finds the strength to leave, despite her feet feeling heavy that she comes across the silk dressing gown discarded on the floor.

A wide smile blossoms on her face, as she picks it up, before laying the robe gingerly on the bed.

Her smile drops as she stares at it, and she starts to leave his bedroom, trying hard not to engrave any piece of it in her memory.

Molly reminds herself that there are other things to worry about, like her dad being home in the evening, and her cat Toby most likely in a bout of hysterics.

Toby was famous for his dramatics whenever she was away, turning tail towards her upon her return, though when she in turn ignored him he'd sprint along desperate for her touch. He was quite the sulky creature at times, and her mildly sleep-riddled mind made her compare him to her 'Professor'.

Realising she has just postponed her leaving, she rushes towards the door, but she still turns to view the room properly.

She must look, for this might be her only chance.

He doesn't have so many things there, unlike his sitting room, but he doesn't need to. His dark mahogany bed dominates with its intricate carvings, which she, if she had more time, would have studied.

There's surprisingly a framed picture of the periodic table upon the wall, but not much else to boast about. A desk is cluttered with papers, some of which she sees are essays, and there is a forgotten cup of coffee.

She touches the cup, her hand flinching in surprise at its heat.

He had been there.

He must have been marking essays, while she was asleep, and not too long ago. She stares at the cup for some time, finally deciding it is time to brave the other side, and she wonders if the reason she feels the room is 'empty' is due to him.

Upon leaving the room, she tries to resist mapping out the rest of the flat, and luckily the smell of a fresh brew of coffee distracts her from such a thing.

She doesn't feel hungry, just thirsty, and she feels a vague itch in her throat. Molly understands then and there why her vocal chords feel rather wretched, allowing herself to grin abashedly, as she tries to navigate herself around in the kitchen.

By use of some logic she does manage to find a clean cup in the cupboard above the sink, and steals away some of the coffee into the mug, "Good morning," said a voice.

Half-shocked she almost manages to drop the mug and the contents, but finds some calm upon finding his whereabouts.

And she realises he's been there the entire time.

He's leisurely sat with a book in his hands, his eyes on the pages, while she tries to cover her amazement by drinking from her cup. The only thing unfamiliar with the sight of him, are his clothes. He is wearing a deep blue cardigan over a white shirt, with a chequered tie of blue and green.

She has never seen him wear something so 'stuffy', and she wonders if he's at all slept. He looks relaxed, pristine and  _quite_  English, throwing a stark contrast to the expression he starts to give her.

His gaze is intense, rather unnerving even, and she's blushing, she knows it. She holds up the cup, intent on keeping her mouth shut, as she doesn't entirely know what to greet in return, for it is in fact a  _good morning._

Of course despite her better judgement, her nerves get the better of her, and her mouth shoots off, "I've got to go…my cat will be…worried." It sounds like a stupid excuse, besides absolutely idiotic. She wished she was clever, funnier, but she attempts to salvage the whole outburst with a mumbled, "Morning, sir."

He sets aside the book in his hand, giving her his full attention, as his hands stay on the arm-rests of the chair, "Molly, I am aware that it a foreign concept to you, but  _sir_  – is not my name."

She repeated his actual name several times the night before, so it was certainly not unfamiliar to her, "Err – I know, it's just that-,"

"My chastising you for not calling me sir in class, of course," he said looking pensive, until his eyes are on her again, "You must learn to separate our moments to those in class."

"Our moments…sir?" she said, but it's an intentional slip of the tongue, for her smile is large now. She feels proud, a bit braver in his presence, almost rocking on her feet in excitement over his words.

She had been convinced he'd send her away, that he'd regret his actions, something she almost thought she would, but she could not find an ounce of regret in herself.

His brow is raised in brief amusement, "If you wish to continue – Miss Hooper with our -  _reading_?"

"Yes, sir," she said, the words rushing out of her mouth, and she doesn't attempt to disguise her enthusiasm either.

She cannot do so now.

He picks up his book again, shielding his face, so she cannot see if he's pleased or not. She stands there for a minute or two, sipping on her coffee, aware of the silence, which isn't uncomfortable anymore, but when she finishes her cup – it becomes so.

She settles the empty cup by the kitchen sink, trying to busy her hands, as she attempts to find something to do. But there is nothing she can do - there is after all no reason for her to stay.

He is still sat reading quietly, his face hidden away, and his posture rigid. Molly half-expects him to do something, but she knows that their time is running out.

"I should go," she said restless, finding her feet, and walking to locate her shoes in the sitting room.

Amidst her rummaging, she hears sounds of movement, and her eyes turn towards him, while she slides on her shoes. She cannot stay, not any longer, and the clock warns her off such an idea, ticking ominously in the background.

There was no time in his bedroom, but time is now hounding her every movement.

He sat the book aside, his countenance quite serious, "Why?" he said rather quickly, looking just for a second disappointed.

She looks up in surprise, crouched on the floor tying her shoelaces. It almost seems like he's forgotten what she's said previously, and somehow she's glad, though saddened by his change of expression- "Toby gets quite upset – he's my cat," she said carefully, seeing annoyance flare up in his face, as she rights herself up from the floor.

"Yes, the ginger hair. I know," he said distractedly, turning silent, until he stands up, making her almost take a step back in surprise. There is something quite childish in his expression, but it alters so quickly to  _something else_  she feels weak in the knees.

He is looking at her, not through her, but at  _her._

Molly stands still, staring up at him, as he slides his arms around her waist, the heat of his body touching hers.

His face is inching closer to her face, eyes at her lips, "I understand that," he murmured, his breath dancing on her face.

She can count his eyelashes by how close he is; notice the alterations in his eyes, the darkness that seeps into them, the brief flicker to her lips, but when she feels surrounded by his warmth – he steps back instead.

It's cold again, and it is not relief that crashes into her, but frustration.

Molly stares at him with parted lips, struck dumb with confusion.

His eyes are fixed on the wall behind her, still like a statue, and she can see by the way his jaw clenches that he is under strain.

"We mustn't get carried away," he said slowly.

She blinks furiously at that, knowing all too well that they already have, and she crosses her arms in disbelief. "That's not fair, sir," she said in a small voice.

Her anger makes her turn her eyes to the floor, as she wonders if he's gotten what he wanted. Perhaps she  _has_  been a fool, and has truly let herself be tricked.

And then she feels the weight of his finger underneath her chin, tipping her face upwards, and she sees the faint smile playing on his lips, "You expect a kiss, then?"

She knows that he doesn't mean 'kiss', purely by the way he said it, of how he lets the words hover in the air, and the blackness that flare up in his eyes.

"No, sir," she said quicker than she intends to.

His finger disappears.

She doesn't mean it like that, does not intend to sound like she's refusing him, but it does.

Anger briefly crosses his face, "Then leave Molly – attend to your cat," he said with a disgruntled expression.

She hesitates, "Go," he continued with a nod to the door.

"Ok," she said with a slight frown.

Intent on marching out rather angrily, she hears a muffled groan behind her. Her anger dissipates the second she feels him pull her by the waist, until her back is pressed flush against his chest.

His breathing is heavy, his body taut behind her, and she wonders how it would be to see him bare on his sheets.

No, she wishes, she wants.

Hands roam across the fabric of her uniform; his fingers easing open several buttons of her shirt, before he unhurriedly caresses the top of her breasts. She swallows at the heat that spreads from his touch, of the strength she feels he possesses, and the weakness he makes appear in her instantly.

His breath is on her neck, tickling her hair, as he proceeds to give a small chaste kiss below her ear, "Molly…if you do not leave now, I will not be able to let you go," he whispers.

Her knees almost buckle, her heart pounding furiously at the implication, as he twirls her around on the spot to face him. She is pushed up against him when his mouth seeks her out, searing with emotion so powerful she doesn't know if she can leave.

It's all she can do not to stay, small moans escaping her lips, as his mouth marks hers. He tastes so sweet, as she only wants to bring him closer by his tie, and allow him everything. Despite her emotions and body arguing with her, she manages to pull her lips away from his.

"I have to go," she said with a breathy voice, licking at her lips to salvage the taste of him.

He leans his forehead against hers, while his eyes look close to storms, but he does not release her, seeming reluctant to truly let her go.

"I know," he said in a low voice, nodding against her forehead, eventually freeing her.

The sudden loss of contact is not welcome, and her body yearns on the spot, but she knows it isn't goodbye, though she does not know when they will be together like this again.

She stands for several seconds, taking in his pained face, until he manages to school it into the one he bears in the classroom every day. Yet his eyes are not on her, they are pointedly at the door. Despite herself she quickly leans onto her toes, giving him a brief kiss on the corner of his mouth, before she runs away so he won't make her stay.

She swears she hears music the seconds she leaves, throwing her coat on, as she tries to remove herself from Baker Street before her strength abandons her. She is giddy with every step, foolish with every movement, wrapping her coat around her, amongst the sun that finally reflects the feeling in her heart.

* * *

Her legs are crossed on the bed, her nose stuck in a book, when she hears a familiar throat being cleared.

"So, had a nice weekend, then?" said her dad, still wearing his bomber jacket, "Hope you haven't stayed in the whole time?"

She grinned to herself, "Yeah," she said a bit distracted, petting Toby with her free hand, since he's finally allowing her the pleasure (like he assumes it is her who's mainly enjoying it).

"Alright, then – _luckily_  - I won't be going off anytime soon," he said with a small laugh, and she finds herself looking rather distraught at that.

She only catches the back of her father disappearing, when she looks up feeling rather torn. It was sheer luck that had brought her to Sherlock, and she realised the likelihood of any such instance ever happening again.

Her father she couldn't exactly send off again, neither did she want to, but she knows she barely has any time off, except when she visits her granny's…

Molly spends the rest of her evening in a confused daze, replaying every instance of her 'moments' with her Professor, sensing the worry grow, as she understands those will be far apart.

But she has the fresh memories now, too new to discourage her, as she knows that no book would ever be comparable to those instances.

No, Poirot wasn't anything compared to Sherlock Holmes, she thought tossing the book in her hands aside.

* * *

Patches of ice crack underneath her bike's wheels, the frosty air blowing her hair aside, as she tries to steady herself with her rather faulty brake. The cold nips at her face, but despite that, her mind wanders, like it has most of the morning, reminding her of how she will cope with Professor Holmes in class now.

It will certainly be strange pretending that their relationship has not altered one square, when the mere thought of him gives her so much joy. She could scarcely eat or sleep, overwhelmed by that bubbling sense of giddiness in her stomach.

Things would certainly be different, though she would have to keep it a secret. Not that she had anyone to share this secret with. Molly grins over the thought that it is 'their' secret, and theirs alone, and she feels calmed down by that. Her bike hits another patch of ice much larger than the others, and she finds herself losing control speeding ahead, soon gripping tightly at the brakes.

And suddenly she's toppled right over her steering handles, throwing her off until she's flipped onto her back hard onto the asphalt. She gaps for breath, finding it hard then and there, as she hears the cars honk loudly in the distance. To her horror she sees one black car speed towards her, and she feels all of a sudden faint by its appearance.

* * *

He has an unlit cigarette in the corner of his mouth, eyes turning to her sitting in the passenger seat, "You sure you want me to take you to school, then?" he said in slight disbelief, as he drove at almost top-speed. She wonders if the buildings and trees are supposed to be that blurry, or if he is driving too fast.

She was lucky she hadn't been killed, she supposed, by the way he drove. When Molly had finally come to, after having an unfamiliar man smack her in the face several times (a wholly unpleasant affair), she awoke droning on about being late.

Of course, she'd be talking about that, which was a thing he'd mocked her for half-hysterical, she might add. She felt rather calm despite herself, brushing aside any attempts of being hospitalised. It was just a bit of a fall, after all, and people usually survived those.

"Yes," she moaned holding a hand to her head, "I'm alright. I'm just a bit put out – you don't need to drive me really."

"It's no problem, I almost drove  _over_  you – so I'm bloody driving you to school," said the man named Richard Brook.

He'd been on his way to work, though her situation was too much for him to let her go on her own with a clear conscious. Though she felt his help went certainly further than needed, helping her lock her bike away nervously, as his attempt at jamming it in into the backseat of his car was unsuccessful.

She could have gotten there on her own; it was only the wind that had knocked her out a bit, but he wouldn't listen, "You've got a nurse, right?" he asked for about the tenth time.

"We do, but I'm fine," she repeated with a sigh.

The car halted with a stop outside of her school, and she found herself glad at the familiar sight. She gave a brief awkward nod to her driver, "Thanks, Richard," she said.

"You're welcome, Molly," he said with a grin, "And – err – sorry for almost-,"

"I'm alive, so it'll be fine," she said with a laugh about to open the car door, when Richard ran out of the driver seat opening the door for her. She frowned slightly, "Thanks," she said with a slight limp.

"Right – ok -," he said, hands on his hips, as he turned his head towards her school, " _Oh_  – right – my sister goes here."

"Oh," she said blinking stupidly for a second, trying not to put any more pressure on her one leg, "She does?"

"No wonder I knew where this was," he said with a shake of his head, ruffling a hand through his dark hair, "Well, I'll probably see you round – good luck," he said smiling at her, "Right – bye!"

Molly gave him a half-hearted wave when his car whizzed off, and she was left limping slowly to the school. Her leg did smart terribly; there was even a massive tear in her stocking, revealing that blood was sliding down her leg. She felt too weary and obstinate to even go to the nurse first, instead she slowly got herself to the classroom.

Her hand was covered in grime and blood she saw, as she started to reach out for the door handle – but the door opened before her, "And here is-," he was obviously preparing an ostentatious speech about her tardiness, having heard her slow progression in the hallway with his eagle-like hearing, though his face paled at the sight of her, "Mo –  _Miss Hooper!"_

She had intended to open her mouth to protest at what he'd planned for her, her annoyance increasing, which she assumed had to do with the throbbing ache in her head, but his sudden outburst quickly silenced her.

"Class – read page 234 – and write your own opinion on the text. I will return after guiding Miss Hooper to the nurse," he barked quickly to the class, some of which were trying to have a look at her from their seats, but he ushered her out – banging the door shut behind them.

The change in his stern expression vanished, a quieter man almost taking his place, and she felt like crying, as suddenly everything felt more painful than before.

"Are you alright?" he said with a soft voice, taking her rucksack from her, and slinging it over his shoulder, "Lean on me."

"I'm fine-," she groaned, but she felt better the instant he allowed her to lean on him, " – I don't need to see the nurse."

"You fell off your bike then-," he said, his voice dripping with annoyance.

"Ye-," she tried to say, though he interrupted her, as he slowly steered her through the hallways.

"Do try to be aware of your surroundings, Miss Hooper, instead of letting yourself be distracted."

That was certainly easier said than done, for his very presence at the moment managed to distract her from the pain in her leg, and if that wasn't helpful she knew not what was. She tried to ignore the fact that her hand was wrapped around his waist for support, or the wiry strength that he displayed, as he easily got her through the hallways.

In the end, they were at Nurse Hudson's office doors, and he gave a sound knock raising a brow at her, which made her release her grip on him.

The door opened to show the old nurse, a pleased smile appeared on the woman's face at the sight of him, until the woman looked towards Molly rather aghast, "Oh dear."

Apparently she had blood on her face, having managed to smear some from her knee on her cheek, which Nurse Hudson cleared off, "You've just been through a shock, dear. No wonder Sherlock looked pale as death."

She tried to disguise her surprise, as the woman had said his first name without any attempt at propriety, though the woman only beamed at her reaction, "Oh, I used to watch over him as a child – I was the one who got him the job. Never gotten used to calling him  _Professor_  Holmes though," the old woman said with a laugh, clearing the dirt from Molly's knee with a swab.

"Right…" said Molly, as Nurse Hudson put a bandage on her knee. She realised just then how little she truly knew of the man, and she'd been in his home.

He was of all things still a mystery to her.

There was a knock on the door, and a girl in the same year as Molly entered looking rather agitated. Her eyes turned huge when she spotted her, only calming down when Nurse Hudson appeared by her side. The girl kept her voice low, with Nurse Hudson nodding silently in return, until she covertly handed the girl something.

It looked like a box of pills.

The girl left quickly at that, and Molly was left with the nurse, "I'm just waiting for the time they'll allow it to be used in the open, which will probably be soon," said Hudson with a shake of her head, "I've seen too many young girls get into trouble…you haven't got a lad, have you?"

She found herself saying yes, building upon the lie about  _Jim_ , "Just be sure he's clean," Nurse Hudson had said to her in a low voice, as she handed her a box, "And mind you, if anyone finds out I'll most likely get sacked. Though, I'd rather be if people are going to be stuffy about it," said the old woman with a smile.

* * *

Molly missed English of course, and spent most of her time limping towards the rest of her classes, with some of her classmates asking what had happened. When it turned out to be merely an accident, people lost interest, and she didn't feel like going on about it either. She didn't need their sympathy, she'd been stupid at best, and would like to forget it as quickly as possible.

However, the second classes were done for the day, and she realised she'd have to be walking home in what would be presumably the slowest pace, she'd been horribly frustrated. It did come close to her annoyance, of having not seen hide nor hair of Professor Holmes since he dropped her off at the nurse.

Walking along Molly grumbled slightly at every step, hoping to find her bike soon along her path, though she knew she'd barely manage to take it with her in any case, when on the road she saw a familiar car stop at her side. She halted in her step staring when Professor Holmes pushed open the door, "Get in," he said in a stern voice, while she grimaced at him.

"I can walk," she said intending to move along, only to have her leg be rather difficult at that, and she reluctantly limped into his car, "Ok," she said softly, as she sat in the passenger seat.

He snorted slightly, "Now, was that so difficult?"

Sat with crossed arms, she turned her head at him, "I thought we weren't supposed to give the impression…of anything."

"School is out for the day."

"I know it is, sir," she said with a sigh, as he started to drive off.

She kept her eyes out of the window, though her mind struggled to find why she was in fact angry with him, but she realised she was more cross with herself than anything. Now she was wasting an opportunity by sulking, though she knew that she couldn't do anything untoward. After all, there were people walking along the pavement and streets. None of these people knew of their situation, or that this was her professor and his posh car. He wasn't supposed to be able those sort of things, including his clothes due to his low wages.

There were too many things to consider, too many holes surrounding the man that made her wonder – including Nurse Hudson. The more she learned about the man, the less she knew.

She sniffled slightly, leaning against the window avoiding his eyes, as she said, "Are you driving me home?" She knew he was, though she wanted to pretend he wasn't. She wanted to pretend she was free to go - to say - to do anything she wanted.

"Yes."

His answer was brief and terse, spoken out of the corner of his mouth, without his eyes zoning in on her. Sitting upright in the car seat, she stole a glance at him, "Can't we-," she started, feeling almost like a petulant child. She knew she was being difficult, but she'd always been rather too good in her own opinion.

This was one of the few occasions they were alone, and this was once again due to an accident (though more literal this time). Stealing glances at him at school wouldn't be enough, not when there was always the chance to get to touch him, to feel his body firmly underneath hers. The idea itself made her feel rather foolish, like it was a giddy schoolgirl infatuation, but it was oddly enough requited. Being in his presence more would probably explain why, she supposed, or liked, as an excuse.

"No," he said quickly.

"Why not?" she said staring at him fully, taking in his profile, admiring him from where she sat.

"You live with your father."

It was a statement, not a question, but she answered it nonetheless, "Yes…"

"And you've most likely considered the repercussions – if  _we_  are not careful." They were ' _we'_ , they were something, beyond professor and student, and that excited her beyond words.

She was tired, of course, it would be illogical not to go home to rest, but she wanted him there with her. His presence was in itself soothing, his voice even now making her eyelids flutter half-shut.

He gave a sigh, yanking her out of her dreamy fluttering's. He turned the car in such a sharp way, driving a path she didn't fully recognise. Until the car was suddenly parked, and shielded by thick trees, with barely a sprig left on the twigs.

Blue eyes turned to her, amused and rather exasperated, like she is a problem to be solved, and he's suddenly adjusting the seat. She squeaks loudly when she finds herself reclined on her back.

For a second she's confused, until he does so with his own seat, and he grabs her to him, letting her rest on his warm chest.

Swallowing down the shock and the oncoming laughter, she said, "Why?" peering up at him.

"It seemed logical," he said with a tilt of his head, his eyes bearing down upon her, as she feels him breathing underneath her hands.

She allowed a grin to escape, though quickly adapts a serious expression, "Ok."

"We only have five minutes before your father will get suspicious."

Molly lifts up her head curiously, "Have you followed me around?"

"No…" he said, and she wonders if the conversation has ended, until he adds, "But I have seen you."

"You've  _seen_ me?" she said confused.

"Yes."

"What does that mean?"

"That your father has a right to be concerned…"

She understands then, by the way he looks at her, taking to rest properly on his chest, her cheeks pink, as his hand gently strokes her hair, slipping strands of hair through his fingertips.

"He's not even home," she said, and suddenly his hand stops.

"Oh," he said rather quietly.

"He's working a bit late today," she said recounting their discussion at breakfast, though she never thought she'd have several minutes to spare in Professor Holmes' car. She wonders how he knows things anyway, "When you were on the tube, that was an accident, right? Since you haven't actually been following me?"

"I haven't-,"

"Because that would be odd."

"I had a doctor's appointment," he said rather slowly, his hand tracing measured circles on her back.

"Are you sick?" she asked.

"I have been."

"Oh – but you have to see your doctor every week?"

"My brother insists," he said, and she can hear the annoyance in his voice.

"You have a brother? He's not that friend-,"

"That's John."

"Doctor Watson?"

"Yes."

"Is he your doctor?"

"No."

She is looking up at him now, smiling stupidly, as she sees his brows knitting at the questioning, "Is he a very good friend?"

"Yes."

"Does he know?"

"That he is my friend?" he said frowning at her, smirking slightly, "You haven't said your father isn't home, so you can ask all of these questions?"

"No," she said reaching her hand out to touch his face. He gives a deep breath at that, seeming surprised, even unfamiliar to the feeling, as she takes to stroke his brow, letting her finger slide across it gingerly.

"Have you had many?" she said not sure where she had the bravery to ask such a question, it's like she's stolen some from him.

"What?" he said gently, with slightly narrowed eyes, looking a bit ruffled now, like she's trodden too far into the abyss, and after this there is no recovery.

She almost feels like taking it back, shaking her head, but she doesn't. With her hand on his cheek she said, "Women."

His nostrils flare, his eyes unreadable, and she lets her hand fall, pulling it to herself, but he takes it. He cradles her hand in his, touching the tip of her nails, as he then said, "No."

It is said so quietly, that she barely believes it, and her brazen, "Really?" sounds like it touches a nerve in both of them, the pit of her stomach reeling from the impact, "But…" she begins, trying to salvage it, mimicking his voice.

"I have imagination."

She blinked, distracted by the light caresses he gives her hand, as he brings it up to his mouth – brushing a kiss over the knuckles, "And I am quick learner," he said with a furrow of his brows, and a twinkle in his eyes.

Gaping, she takes a breath, "Err – how old are you?" she said, steering the conversation elsewhere, not knowing if this is her last moment with him, or not. They are  _there_ , though, and that can all dissolve in a heartbeat. She wants to remember so terribly –  _this_ – for everything she's ever liked, or loved – gets wrecked, in some way or the other. The memories are usually all that remains.

"26," he said seeming pleased by the change of direction, though he rolls his eyes ever so slightly.

"You're not that old then."

"How old would that be?" he said gripping at her arms, dragging her closer to him, so she is but inches from his face.

He leans towards her, his lips nipping lightly at hers, "Old," she said distractingly, her lips trembling at the little impact from his.

His brow is raised, his expression mock seriously, "That would be quite old," he murmured, his eyes turning dark, as they wander down to her lips.

He makes a path with his lips on her mouth, marking and branding them his. Tingles flow throughout her, spurred on by the fleeting brushes, to the breathless kisses that damn her. Her hand is wrapped around his tie, tearing at the fabrics, wishing it gone, as her lips search his.

This is the only thing that exists, no past, no future, no terrible lies, no truths, and she allows herself to dive into it, thoroughly enjoying the sweep of his tongue against hers.

She moans against his mouth, spurring him on, as she sits on top of him, his hands flush on her hips. It is uncharted territory, her skirt riding up briefly, as she realises the growing frustration underneath her.

This awakens her, bringing her back to the present, with his mouth pressed passionately against her neck, biting her lightly.

Heat floods her desperately, clinging under her aching skin, and she wants to bite back the words, but still, "Sir."

He turned stiff at those words, though he makes a throaty noise, only to kiss her below her ear, his hands stroking the sides of her shirt, edging towards the underside of her breasts, "Sir-,"

His hands are at firmly at her hips, static, as he pulls back from her enquiringly, "Yes, Molly?"

She clears her throat; "You have to drive me home. He'll know if I'm a bit late," she said knowing her father all too well, feeling the flair of disappointment in her stomach.


	7. Suppressed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to hedilein who betaed this chapter because I wanted it out and about! Thank you for the reviews as always, you're all terribly sweet and write better reviews than the actual story. Read on!

  
**Suppressed:** To deliberately exclude (unacceptable desires or thoughts) from the mind.

* * *

She can see her house in the distance. Lights flooding out revealing the little dishevelled excuse of a garden, unfairly robbed of its pleasing appearance by the frost lingering in the air (no flower would enter there more, due to the loss of her mothers hands). It is the same cold that ends up hitting upon her skin, as she withdraws from the warm confides of his car. Her hand is positioned on the handle, lingering, letting the cold rush in. Unlike her, he looks unmoved, his eyes steering themselves to her house almost mechanically, "Your father is home," he said.

Molly wonders if he will brave one last look at her, for she is unable to look away from him, but he finally meets her eye.

The short glance only makes her insides twist, "Ok," she said.

She wishes she had not  _left him so unsatisfied_ , the words of the bard echoing in her head. Not long since were those hands holding hers, grazing her fingertips, and holding the back of her head to edge her lips closer for a  _sinful_ kiss.

They are not lovers, not yet, but she wants him to seem more affected, to be on the precipice just as she is. But it's a change she knows must come, one she instigated with her own clarity. He must keep a distance, though she has never been fond of goodbyes, and this is one she could do without. The second she thinks so the engine awakens, reviving her senses, as she slams the door shut.

In the end she only sees the backlights, her hand edging upwards for a wave that falls short to her side, as she tugs her coat nearer, sheltering herself from the cold.

His abrupt coldness makes the winter's gradual return seem colder, but she knows it is not without point – though she hears a car-horn sound in the distance. A smile returns to her face, bearing witness that despite his cool manner, it is not his wish to depart so grim. Her steps towards the house are light despite her limp, keys soon jingling soundly in her hands, until she sees lights, and the door bursts open, "Dad?" she said taking a step back in surprise.

His body is half-way out of the door, pushing her aside, as he narrows his eyes upon the almost barren road, "That's a smart car," he said gaping, "Is he posh?"

"Umm – err – no – no – it's his – err – dads!" she cried out flabbergasted, soon shoving her father indoors, with him still trying to look out, clearly to infuriate her, and not to scare the living daylights out of her, like he is.

She is rather glad she has 'Jim' to lean back upon,  _her boyfriend_ , as her father has now started to take upon spying through the drapes, a scheme she'd never assume he'd ever undertake, "I'm just curious that's all," he exclaims, as she ushers him further in, away from the door and the windows.

She would rather he not jot down the licence plate, for she wouldn't find it entirely unprecedented if he did – for they'd only ever seen such an exclusive car in pictures after all. Considering his extensive reading of crime-novels he would 'deduce' that Professor Holmes was a master criminal of some sort.

Her legs smarts the second she gets him into the sitting room, pushing him into his regular maroon chair, but she tries to ignore the sudden sting, "What's happened to you?" he said staring at her bandaged knee.

He's on his feet instantly, seeking out her leg, and staring at it, "Are you alright?" he asked giving her an once-over.

"Fell off Stella this morning – that's why – he – err – drove me," she said finding some relief in another lie. They were starting to become building blocks these lies, and she wondered whether they'd start to dissemble any day soon, "I thought you'd be home later…" she starts about to move away, hoping the discussion will end squarely there.

"So – that's your mysterious Jim?" he asked.

She feels the blood rush out of her head instantly, prickles appearing in her cheeks, "He's – he's not mysterious," she blurted out, a tiny giggle escaping her lips, barely masking her wrecked nerves.

"Only saw the back of his head, if that's what you're worried about," he said with a wide grin, "Now - are you going to have him over soon, or will that be when he asks for your hand?"

Somehow the fact that he finds it at all comical makes ice grow in her stomach. Not that she would ever think…not that she could ever see…She does not know what is in store, what the future might bring, for she barely sees the solid ground underneath her feet as it is, gravitating between wonder, lust and confusion.

"I – I – don't know dad…he's very -  _very_ shy," she said avoiding his eyes, as he abruptly stops laughing taking in her most likely all-too solemn face.

She cannot keep herself from looking put out, the entire idea feels rather impossible, and she is somehow assured by the lurch in her stomach that her father and Professor Holmes will never meet.

He seems to understand by her look that he has to change the topic, and he nods towards her leg instead, "You got fixed up by a nurse?" he said, and she is relieved that he is letting it go. Despite him reminding her of the most likely highly illegal contents in her rucksack (of which he would certainly not approve).

"Yes, at school," she said with a nod, paying the wallpaper a bit more fervent interest than usual, as if the 'pills' would jump out from her rucksack displaying themselves to her father.

She could only imagine his look of horror at the sight, though perhaps he would never question them, and assume they were just recommended for a headache (after all that's what they started as).

"Good…good," he said his eyes going above her head as well, until one of his large hands covered her shoulder, "Just be careful, Molly."

"Careful?" she said anxiously, when he releases her shoulder rather quickly.

"You know these city-boys…they can easily get distracted," he said leaving her alone in the sitting room to more unwanted thoughts.

* * *

She allowed the fanciful thoughts of secret kisses to consume her, though they do not take place. He doesn't act in any way she could condemn as irregular. Somehow it annoys her, even more when her leg heals quickly. It was only a minor dent in her amour. A scrape that she could brush off, and she does, but it did not warrant for any more trips in his car.

He hadn't offered any more either, and she takes to use her legs, instead of her bike due to the sudden snow.

"I haven't seen a winter like this in years," her father would say, each morning as he either dropped her off, or she sprang out unreasonably early.

She knew she moved quicker at the thought of seeing him, hoping he'd do anything forbidden, but she wishes she were braver at school.

There are no incidents that pull him to her side, but she schemes plentiful in her head.

They are elaborate, silly and barely scraping the barrel of truth. Instead she digs her hands into her books, her work, and her words. It's remarkable how just a week or two without him seems to lengthen, almost extending into years, and it seems to be the longest of winters.

She knows she is being foolish, demanding she wrench her head out of the clouds, as her mind wanders from the book she holds in her hands.

Molly has taken to sit on a bench that she knows is within his regularly scheduled 'walk'. For a man who is so changeable, he likes to adhere to certain rules. He only ever gives her small looks at best, not exchanging any long ones, while she gives him her full attention.

She realised to her pleasure that she could act like one of the lovelorn pupils without consequence; almost hoping her staring would break him out of his reverie. But at the school he is a saint, still sharing his books, but those exchanges are certainly less intimate by far. One could almost conclude he was truly attempting to keep her away, but she is not so daunted outside the school grounds.

She speaks, telling too much of herself, yearning for him to go on, but he only observes her mutedly in the short train rides. She doesn't understand why he is keeping his tongue now, why he suddenly has seemed to shy away from her, and she hopes there is a good reason as to that – "Good book?" a voice said.

Molly looked up from the pages of her book in surprise, she had barely taken in a word, and so it makes no difference for her at the interruption, but the questioner is, "Mr Brook?" she said, "Richard?"

He has a cigarette at his lips again, lit this time, the cigarette fumes lingering around his face, as his black eyes widen in good humour. "Sorry, couldn't help myself-," he said, soon sitting besides her on the bench, his legs spread wide, as he leans towards her a little, "Just visiting my little sister Irene, and saw you sitting here. You probably enjoy the company of books better, though?"

Richard leans away from her again, aware that he's broken into her space, and she feels immensely relieved by this action, "Oh, no, it's alright," she said lowering the book to her lap, squinting a bit against the stream of sunlight that has by some luck hit the school grounds for once.

Richard's dark eyes follow, "Victoria by Knut Hamsun?" He pronounced the name terribly wrong, but she does not correct him, "You're clever, then?"

She doesn't know how to answer that question, her mouth hovering between close and open, as her hand touches the hard surface of the book cover.

It was her Professor's whose books had gone from being salacious to amorous, if she dare even think it.

"Obviously you are," he said with a wink, "Knee better?"

"Yes – thanks– it was really nice of you."

"It's what any  _Good Samaritan_  would do, honestly," he said, "At least I do hope they would, you know."

"I would."

"I'm not surprised, you seem nice," he said with a pointed stare.

She looked away at that, "I've got to go in," she said feeling oddly unsettled, standing up from the bench, but his eyes follow her too.

It's an eerie sensation, unlike when Sherlock observes her, and she doesn't know what she feels about it. Yet she doesn't at all feel he is interested in her.

"Good idea – it's freezing –  _well_  - good morning, Molly," he said standing up, raising his brows at her, before he strode along – throwing his cigarette aside on the ground.

* * *

"Detention, Miss Hooper," shouted Professor Faulkner, his eyes slits, spittle flying out of his mouth, as she flinched heavily in her seat, trying to argue her point.

No one came to her assistance however, all of them hunched silently, as she just pressed her lips tightly together.

His exact words had been, "No woman would be fit in a higher position, such as a doctor."

Her hand had darted upwards, and of course she stated on what had previously been a brief thought in her mind, that she now certainly felt keen on obtaining as her future vocation, "And you would not feel  _faint_  at the sight of a mangled corpse?" He directed his smarmy expression to the class, sniggering at her, attempting to bring the class on his side.

"No more than you, sir," she quipped.

His face turned red, as the entire class laughed, though she did not end her speech there, "There is no one who instantly come within contact with a dead body without becoming sick at the sight, to _begin_  with sir, but we all become accustomed to the oddest of things-,"

"Silence – Miss Hooper – I do not need to hear anymore excuses from you – your marks might be adequate, but there are few schools that would take you in, depending on your sex."

"So, by that logic, I would be accepted, hadn't it been for the fact that I am a woman?"

She could see the nerve popping out in his forehead, she knew she had to be silent, but she couldn't. Everyone seemed to allow him to think such medieval views it was terrible.

"Yes," he spat.

She snorted, "Well, then I will falsify my application."

"You will do no such thing!" he said in outrage, "End of discussion, Miss Hooper!"

Molly then proceeded to say a string of words that were certainly not represented in any of their schoolbooks, and got a gasp from her class. She had certainly gone too far, but it was worth it. A detention from him however, wouldn't be a joyous evening, as he would certainly try to lure out any other word from her, so he would have the pleasure of having her in another round of detention.

The second she got into the appointed room, she was surprised to find Professor Holmes talking with Faulkner, the pair of them looking rather severely at her entry. However to her surprise Faulkner turned to her, "Important matters have been brought to my attention, and I am grieved to say that Professor Holmes will take over this evening – with grim displeasure, I am sure."

"Yes – Miss Hooper is certainly a  _handful_ ," said Sherlock with such an air, causing her throat to dry.

If he actually agreed with the horrid man, all that was between them would turn dead in seconds, and she'd never look at him with a fond eye anymore.

Faulkner gave a brief nod to Holmes, before promptly sneering at her, banging the door shut behind him.

Molly drew back her shoulders, meeting his eyes expectantly, "What am I to do, sir?" she said with a business-like-tone.

He raised a brow, "Where did you learn that word?" he said carefully, leaning the palm of his hands on the desk that he stood behind. His usually impeccable attire was slightly un-done at the top buttons of his shirt, his hair a ruffled entangled mess, if she weren't so nervous at the outcome of his questioning – she'd be humming in silent pleasure, "Miss Hooper?"

She swallowed slightly, ignoring her own flush; "I read it in a book once."

"Which one would that be?"

She smiled foolishly, "One of yours, sir."

"You put it to good use, then," he said standing upright, hands in his pockets, "So, what exactly do you do – during detentions?"

She blinked, "You're – you're not angry?"

"I have several words regarding Faulkner – first being idiot – and the others variations upon that – but – what do you in fact do during these late hours of the day?"

"Things I wouldn't regularly do during class," she said, her eyes turning down to the floor, only looking up when she heard him locking the door.

"This will not be your ordinary detention," he said with a severe expression, "John regularly assists me in this dull work, but I think – you will do quite nicely."

"What?" she said gaping, as images were quickly conjured in her mind without her managing to steer them away.

Professor Holmes smirked, stepping away from the door, before he walked off to the desk bringing forth a large stack of papers, "Grading papers,  _Miss_  Hooper. I'd rather not have us interrupted," he said rather cheekily.

He knew her mind had been in the gutter, "Oh," she said shielding her disappointment terribly, since there were enough colourful stories to read regarding late night detentions, and 'rulers' being aptly used in these instances.

"I think my  _colleagues_ would frown on the fact that I'd allow one of my top students to mark the papers of her peers," he said with a tentatively raised brow, placing the papers down on the other end of the desk, gesturing for her to sit down at the chair in front of it.

She didn't know how dull work it was, correcting others papers, fixing their grammar. Trying not to laugh at the terrible imagery some of them would use, or the large words, which would be good, if they hadn't used them incorrectly.

Molly found herself giggling once in a while, occasionally looking up, as Professor Holmes worked at top-speed. He barely looked at the pages, before his pen dashed quickly across them, revising, and marking them, finishing off his pile much quicker than her.

She expected him to start helping her with her own large one, but he silently brought out a book instead –  _Lady Chatterley's Lover._

He didn't look up, turning the pages at an excruciatingly slow pace, unlike his marking, and she tried not to look. He must know what that book now meant to her, so this was his punishment for her staring.

Instead of seeming affected, she gripped firmly at her pen, focusing her attention on the papers.

"We might have to be here all night at the speed you are working in," he said turning a page, causing her to look up frowning at him.

"You could help, sir."

"I have already done my portion of the work."

He was such a confusing man. One moment he would be whispering things into her ear, his hand skirting up her inner thigh playfully, and then he would seem quite different. However he had done none of those things of late, now it was only her imagination acting against her, "Whom were you speaking with at lunch?" he said startling her.

"Sorry?"

"The man. Lower-class bred with round shoulders and a nicotine addiction that occupied the bench with you."

His eyes were not on her, they were on the pages of the book, but they were not sweeping over the words at all.

"Are you jealous?" she said baffled.

He looked up with narrowed eyes, "No."

"Ok," she said slowly, continuing with her work.

Several minutes past, the topic dissolving, or so she thought, until he spoke again, "Do you intend to answer the question?" His annoyance was shielded rather poorly.

"I would rather finish, sir," she said keeping her eyes down on her papers, marking the page off, before continuing with another.

"Enough," he said reaching for the pen in her hand.

She drew her hand back, "No, I intend to finish it, sir," she said quietly, "It's not terrible work, after all."

He snorted, "Molly."

She looked up, allowing the pen to lie on top of the papers, as he looked at her intently across the desk. His mouth was pressed together in a thin line; she could see he was thinking, trying to make out what to say.

Before, she always assumed that adults knew what to say in every occasion, but in the end she understood that there was no real difference between any of them. When he didn't hasten to speak, she spoke, "He drove me to school when I got into my accident on the bike – his sister goes here, so…he just said hello."

"Sister?" said Professor Holmes with a peculiar expression on his face.

"Yes, some girl by the name Irene apparently, must be someone under my year. I know no one by that name, at least not going by Brook."

"Ah," said Sherlock leaning back into his chair, falling silent, and she is curious at what he makes of the information.

Minutes pass, so she asks the question that remains more in her mind than the other, "Will you admit to being jealous, sir?" she said returning to the marking, stifling her laugh with a bite of her lip. He is silent however, her laughter vanishing, as she catches the dark look in his eyes.

Only a small squeak is emitted from her mouth the second she is dragged out of her chair, and pushed on top of the desk, papers and objects underneath her. Her back feeling the hard surface, as he is stood between her spread legs, "Prof-," she attempted to exclaim.

She was never given a chance as his mouth met hers, his hands digging into her clothes, as he held her tight towards him. It was beyond desperate, the one thing she had wanted from him for what seemed to be ages, and she felt the ache in her chest increase by the fervour that his lips met hers.

She has missed the taste of him, easing her mouth open to his, moaning against his lips, unable to help herself, as she lets her nails dig into his back.

It's wrong, so absolutely wrong of them to do something there, and it seems he becomes yet again aware of the fact by breaking away from her.

He's licking at his lips, "Don't bite your lip in front of me," he said in a gravelly voice, stepping backwards, "Go home, Miss Hooper – I'll finish the rest alone."

She opens her mouth to protest, but the stern expression in his eyes softens, "We can't," he finished. She knows they can't, he's already broken one rule quite heavily, and so she escapes the room not long after.

* * *

Weeks fly past so quickly.

December intrudes upon them with its garish red imposing her home, the pine scent persistent in the sitting room. There are only a few things that drift through her mind throughout the passing days, constant and unchanging.

He should not have kissed her.

She replays the moment often, reliving in the forbidden splendour of the brief touch and pleasure he elicited in her by the ardour of his supressed passion.

Reading became a chore, worse than ever, for her fantasies of other detention increased by every attempted turn of the page. He did not give her any more books, and she suspected it was not because of her agitation, but the workload that cluttered her desk.

She knows if her mind was away from the clouds she would not long for detention, no, and surely fortune would not put him before her once more. It was wretched to have something and have it taken away.

Even worse to have it stand in the background, a constant reminder without ever being able to speak alone, without the fear of breaking the 'rules'. For she wants to break every rule in the book, bend them until they evaporate from the pages, and she has him fully.

For there is a strain upon him, invisible strings pulling at his shoulders, though his behaviour is not at all unfavourable in class. He is everyone's favourite once more, but certainly easily irritated by ignorant questions.

Molly knows her body language displays her frustration quite broadly during his classes, especially in the one he is orchestrating now.

Once more she is stroking at her lips, gnawing, biting – until her lips are flushed and swollen. She does not do it consciously, not often at least, but she finds a faint blush in his cheeks.

Today however he is the imagery of professionalism, not even looking at her as he addresses the class, avoiding any chance glance, "Miss Hooper?" said his voice, calling her out amidst her thoughts, another class of his where her mind drifted off of late, ironic that all the thoughts careen towards him.

She blinked up at him, suddenly aware that she had been unabashedly staring, "Err – yes, sir?"

Laughter rose up in the classroom, others taking delight in her being a dolt, "Welcome back, Miss Hooper, now tell me – what are the major themes in Anna Karenina? Since we have you here."

He looked positively gleeful, eyes thoroughly amused, as she straightened up in her seat, "Well…I'd say it's the social change in Nineteen-century Russia," she said slowly.

She hears the displeased mutters, the laughter falling short immediately.

He frowns slightly, almost sullenly, the closest to 'non-professional' she has found in him of late, but she would have an answer ready. They'd been reading it for the last week, her fellow classmates gushing over it, while she was grieved by Anna's demise, that she saw no other way out of her troubles.

It was a means to an end more than anything - suicide.

To be frank, she was surprised they at all had it in their syllabus, it wasn't exactly  _English_ , but she suspected that he had argued the books importance.

"Correct," he said with a sigh, directing another question to a less dreamy student.

She only grinned at that, the smile disappearing, as she realised the –  _time_  – this was their last class of the year. A fact she had not allowed herself to grumble too much about, essays and tests having managed to distract her properly, until her hand cramped from all the notes she'd been taking.

Molly's brown eyes darted to the almost snowed down windows. London was cloaked in white snow, with sudden bouts of icy rain - it was certainly more picturesque. When her mind finally resurfaced to her surroundings, she found class had ended. Students were already on their way out, and she rushed out of her seat, intending to have some few phrases with him, but when she caught sight of his desk – it was already vacant.

He had already left.

She packed quickly, students and professors wandering in the hall, while she stood upon her toes trying to catch a glimpse of his curly dark hair.

He was nowhere to be seen, not even giving her the chance of saying 'goodbye'. What chance would she have to see him during her holidays? Her traditions and duty as a daughter were too sacred to break. The halls emptied out, echoes of footsteps the only thing remaining.

She started to leave; disappointment rattling her, while she shrugged into her thick coat, hoping it was a good enough hurdle against the cold.

He probably had family to visit, most likely, but the thought only made her pose more questions. She still did not have enough answers, her curiosity still raised, and his persona still an enigma.

Molly stumbled slightly in her walk, the lace of her shoe loosening making her rucksack tumble out of her hands. With a supressed groan she bent down to pick up the offending leathery sack, the books almost bursting out of the seams.

This was her mistake.

She heard the quick creak of the door behind her, though her reflexes did not kick in fast enough, as she felt a pair of strong hands drag her by the waist into the offending room – a broom closet.

Molly only yelped in surprised, a squeamish little cry, which certainly did not scare her accoster. His hand was firmly pressed against her mouth, muffling now all continuing sounds that she made to exclaim that something was amiss.

And then she recognised him, strangely by his smell in the dark surroundings of the small space.

He was in essence; a faint whiff of tobacco ash, a tender droplet of cologne, and ink, besides the pleasant allure of his natural musk. Despite her assumption of his professionalism and restraint, this was evidence of the contrary, especially by the way his arousal was blatantly pressed up against her through the fabric of his trousers.

He still did not remove his hand, as he murmured into her ear, "You have to learn to cross your legs."

His breathing was rushed, his grip on her strong, as she had her back pressed against him, "I can't be the only one who looks," he said in a dark voice, like he was about to punish her.

Her knees weakened at such an exclamation; certainly already weak by the way he surrounded her.

He helped her out of her coat, making her face him in the darkness, which she could only blink against. His mouth found hers before she'd made her bearings, the taste of his lips so eerily delicious and welcome that all thought dissipated.

She had missed him, missed the way his mouth nipped at hers, until it all become a throng of deep searing kisses, that had her pressed upon the wall, his knee parting her legs. He was keeping it as chaste as possible, his hands dangerously skirting places, touching briefly her chest, but focusing entirely on her mouth, as she let her hands wander over his firm torso.

The second her hands wandered lower, gripping at the lining of his trousers – he held both her hands in a vice grip above her head, as he tortured her by prolonged kisses at her neck.

He suddenly stopped to her horror, his breath on her face, "Are you staying home?" he whispered.

"Yes."

"Good," he said releasing her wrists, and taking a step back from her, "I suspect you can't visit."

"No," she said hearing the gloomy way she'd uttered it, "Dad is going to be home all of Christmas."

"I thought as much -," he started, and she knows he's going to leave, knew that this was it for now, but she does not want it to be.

"Are you going to visit your family?" she said prolonging the moment, at least for a little while.

"No."

"Oh – why not?"

"We don't do Christmas."

"OK…so you're going to be alone?"

"There is nothing wrong with being alone, Molly. Now go… enjoy your Christmas."

It doesn't sound like it, for her it sounds like he is used to it, a thought she doesn't enjoy. No one should be alone at such a time, especially him, since that is not a thought she can enjoy.

"Please don't be alone," she said, finding his face in the dark, holding him in place, "It's Christmas."

"I'll be fine."

She drops a kiss at the corner of his mouth, tender and short, as she then speaks the words that she wished could be given in the open, "Merry Christmas, Sherlock."

Molly feels the tilt of his lips at her uttering his name, yet she cannot stay to feel the aftereffects, rushing out with her coat in hand. She finds her neglected rucksack, bending down once more, giving a tiny chuckle, before she gathers it up.

Moisture springs to her eyes, making her insides feel heavy, despite lightness poking at them. She walks away for that's the only thing she can do, besides hope.


	8. Punishment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah! Things came up! Stuff! Problems. Things. AussieMaelstrom worked in a speed I have never seen. Lovely woman! Thank you all who still read and etc - you're all lovely people. It's amusing to think that people actually get excited about this story, thank you for that. I am the manifestation of cringing self-doubt, but I hope you enjoy this chapter!

  
**Punishment:**  a penalty inflicted for an offense, fault, etc.

* * *

_Time._  When she was a little girl she'd struggled with learning the clock and understanding 'time'. The concept had struck a cord with her little mind. This was a story her father often retold. "Why?" she'd asked repeatedly according to her father, "Why?"

She hadn't understood, 'why was she supposed to understand it after all', and her father had only managed, "Because… _because_ that's how we know…" he had begun. He'd always get wet at the corner of his eyes every time he retold the story. Despite the fact that she knew every detail, every pause by heart - she would do the same as well.

"What?" she prompted him, as she was apparently brasher when she was a little girl, always running around laughing with her eyes glittering.

"Time."

The answer had only upset her, making her cry a great deal until her mother had held her. She had encircled her with her long slender arms, "Molly…" she said in her soft voice, "When I was a little girl…I was so upset I smashed all the clocks in the house – every single one of them – except the grandfather clock – that one I couldn't reach." Her father would laugh every time at that part, the lines by his eyes growing, "You see, people created time so they could be stuffy and tell people off for being late. Now – don't you want to be silly and tell them off too?"

 _Time._  That's all her mother had needed.

Her mother had only needed a few more minutes; perhaps a few seconds and she would have been at the restaurant. It was the twenty-second of December, a day Molly remembered vividly. Every detail became significant that day, because it wasn't an ordinary day, it was the day her mother died.

Minutes would have made a difference, seconds would have had as well, but the outcome was still the same. She had still stepped out of the door that day, and that car had still hit her.

Her father had gone ahead about twenty minutes before her mother, as she was still searching the house, "My blue earring? Have you seen it? Hardly an earring, but your father is fond of it. He nibbles it off my ear every time," she said, "Of course, it's my lot in life to the find one of them, but not the other."

"Where is that earring?" her mother had drawled, scrambling upstairs, her heels clicking on the steps, before she thundered downstairs again.

Molly knew why she had been lingering, why she'd excused herself from meeting Frank with her father, and all because it had been Molly's first time home alone. It was only going to be a few hours, no great loss, but she saw her mother's hesitation as she clipped on her 'missing' earring.

She had been standing frowning at her from the hallway, pulling on her coat as she tutted, "Have I forgotten something else? I feel I've forgotten something. Well, I'm sure I have," she had said loudly, stepping into the kitchen, most likely checking the stove for any switched on burners.

"Mum, I'll be alright," she'd said seated in her dad's chair with her legs tucked underneath her, as Toby - still a kitten - was springing about on the floor, "I've got Toby."

Her mother had reappeared from the kitchen, and had eyed Toby with a great smile, her dimples visible, "I'm sure he is the bravest cat out there, dashing and handsome – like a prince."

"I don't want a prince," Molly had said affronted.

"A king, then?" said her mother slipping on her gloves.

Molly grimaced, "No…"

"Your father is a king, and that makes you a princess – so a prince is the only thing acceptable for us blue bloods."

Molly said rather indignantly, "I will marry a pauper!"

"I hope with great love?"

"Yes!"

"Good, then it is alright. I shall sway your father with my…Molly – are you entirely alright on your own? Since I can get Mrs Bellamy from next door-,"

"But she smells of fish-,"

"I don't think Toby would mind, actually I think he'd appreciate it."

"But you'll only be gone for a few hours."

"Less then that if I have any say in it, I will most likely come running back here again," she said giving her a kiss on her cheek, "Now, you behave –  _oh_  – of course you will." She gave her another kiss at which Molly giggled, "Fine, fine, I shall go, I'll take a hint and leave you to your beloved book."

She had pressed another kiss on her face, giving her one last tender look, and left. Molly had not thought she would recount the red lipstick on her mother's lips, or the dark blue dress she wore, with a pair of pearls around her neck. She did not know that the small details, insignificant they would have been if it had been an ordinary day - would stay etched in her memory until her last breath. Yet she had almost forgotten it, like it had taken a second seat to another person taking a more prominent part in her life. She felt guilty, for some time she had been cursing the idea of her having to be without her Professor, when she realised how very alone her father would be if she left.

Christmas was not a cheerful holiday for the pair of them, it was quite the opposite, but they did their best. She tried so very hard to wrench him out of his gloom, to clear up his mind every chance she got, but it was difficult when the days were sprinting towards them.

If someone had been 'Christmas' it had been her mother. It was not the well-decorated Christmas tree, or the soft music from the wireless playing, but her way of executing all of those things. She made the little things seem significant, her laugh brighter and her mood cheerful. She would bring in the warmth, the heart that the holidays would have otherwise lacked, re-telling stories of her brothers, "You would have adored your Uncle Mike. He had such an interest for science. We were certain he'd become a doctor, but…people get…lost."

Here she had been sullen because she wouldn't have a chance to leave her father during 'Christmas'. It was a terrible concept. One that brought forth quite a great deal of shame.

Molly stared openly at her breakfast – the porridge barely touched – her spoon dipping into it once in a while. He had been talking, nattering on about everything under the sky, while she was the very picture of gloom, unable to play happy.

She didn't have the strength to do so, like he was. To pretend he liked spending Christmas like this – that he wouldn't get a few drinks, and she'd most likely either help him into his bed, or leave a blanket on him during the night. He didn't like speaking of it, never soberly, as if he expected her to return – 'I thought she was just late, she was always…late."

Regularly she'd be slightly enthused to have time to read, as she'd have most of her work over the holiday already done just to have leisure time at all. Now however she would rather be occupied with essays to write, calculations to make, and chores to be done, as the idea of celebrating Christmas was beyond melancholy this year.

Food was the last thing she wanted to consume, picking at her breakfast, her spoon still dripping of porridge. He'd been eyeing her once in a while, almost thinking aloud by the look on his face, his brows knitting and separating, "You know then?" he said grimacing.

Molly blinked at that, for it sounded like a sentence she would herself say in the future, "What?" she said, as a huge glop of porridge slipped off her spoon and dropped into the bowl.

"You've probably noticed I've been…moping about in the house for a bit now. Well, obviously it's because work has been a bit difficult lately, but I've just got offered something that will make it easier for us, for a while at least."

"Oh?"

"Except I've got to work Christmas," he said pushing his bowl away, which she noted he'd emptied, though his had less food than hers to begin with.

He was making sacrifices for her, small ones that she didn't notice, because she was too busy being an idiot. If he knew, he'd certainly be disappointed in her.

"You don't – you don't need-," she said shaking her head, but his brows furrowed in return.

"If I don't, we'll be in a heap of trouble, Molly," he said, and his expression was dark, while his rough large hands were pressed together.

"Dad-,"

"I want you to go to a proper university when you get older, and city boys won't be ashamed of you…"

"Honestly, dad."

"You haven't had that Jim over, and neither have you left the house to see him. So, I suspect that's off then," he said, "Are you alright?"

"Jim?" she said confused for a second, "Oh – no – we're – we're alright, and dad it's OK, I don't need to go to-,"

"You  _do_ – end of discussion – now eat your porridge – I've already set it up with your granny so you can stay with her while I'm working. I know it isn't ideal, but I can't let you spend time alone during Christmas."

"You don't need to work, dad. You never work Christmas."

"Well, this year I've got to, and we'll just pretend we've had one of our big suppers when I return. You're probably too old to be sitting at home with me anyway."

"No, I'm not, honestly!" she protested. She didn't want him far away, not like this, never like this, as she knew he would be sad when he thought she couldn't see him. She didn't want him to be sad, but she knew he was. She knew how useless he tended to feel, like he couldn't give her everything, and she didn't want him to feel like that. She certainly didn't deserve what he tried to give her.

"Molly, please - just let me do this," he said, his eyes dropping down to the table, and it was obvious he wasn't going to give the idea up.

She didn't want him to work like this, especially now when she knew he was a mess, "Are you going to be okay?" she asked quietly, and she watched him take a breath at that.

"I'll – I'll be fine – Frank's coming with me," he said with a slight laugh, but she knew he was lying.

He wanted her to be happy, but she couldn't when he wasn't.

In some ways she did the same as him, played the same game, "Well, okay then," she said with a brief smile, before she forced the cold porridge down her throat.

* * *

Crawling out of bed, sleep barely driven out of her eyes, she noted that her father had already packed. He didn't want a long goodbye, though she saw the way his eyes lingered on her, his expression stoic, as he gave her an once-over. "I can't drive you to your granny's –  _so_ – I suspect you'll have to use what little money she's given you for the tube, then," he said jamming his woolly hat on his head, putting on a brave smile.

Toby was jumping at her knees; she gave him a tiny distracted scratch behind the ears, as she followed her father to the door. It felt strange in a way, though she kept her mouth shut, as she saw him carry the duffle bag over his shoulder. Right after her mother had died she had concerns with him leaving the house, always anxious for his return, wondering if some horrible faith would await him if he left her. She'd blamed herself that day, and she certainly blamed herself for his leaving now.

He grabbed her to him, the hug briefer than she would have thought, "Right, then," he said pulling back, "Merry Christmas."

She could feel the prickle at her eyes, which she ignored trying to mimic his face, "I'll be ok," she said.

By some luck the telephone went off when she thought the tears would drop, "You better get that, it's probably your granny checking if everything's all right," he said jerking his head, and Molly ran along with Toby at her tail.

She grabbed the receiver and pressed it to her ear, "Hello-," she said smiling at her father, "Yes, I'll accept the call."

"Hello – it's Annabelle, hope I'm not reaching you too late Molly? Your father hasn't left, has he?" said the familiar voice of her grandmother's maid.

"No, not yet – he's on his way out-,"

"Oh that's good - you see your granny's not feeling well-," and at that point Molly did not feel well either. Her eyes darted towards her father who she knew wouldn't leave if she was alone, and whom she knew didn't want to bring her along on such a trip. He needed the work, she knew it, " – so – we wondered if it's alright for you – if he stays home? Since I don't think she's in a fit state for you to come over."

"Oh…well, that's fine," said Molly adopting the tone and expression of someone who was pleased by the news, instead of gutted.

"You're sure?" said Annabelle sounding delighted, "Oh, that's wonderful news! Well – I hope you both have a lovely Christmas!"

"You too," said Molly, before hanging up the receiver, as her father looked at her expectantly.

"Everything's alright, then?"

"Oh, they just wanted me to show up in the afternoon. That means I'll get to sleep a bit longer."

"Looks like you've slept enough now, honestly – you used to wake up so early when -," he stopped at that, a slight tremble starting at his lips. "Well – I think I best be going, before it starts to get dark again."

He gave her a whiskery kiss on the forehead, sweeping her into another much more crushing hug, which she leant into properly. She didn't want him to go, though she knew he needed to. In some ways the house was poison. It had her mother written all over it, and even the few baubles they would have on the Christmas tree were hers (one Christmas one of them had been broken, and he'd shouted at her - first and last time that happened).

* * *

Molly leapt underneath the covers of her bed, wallowing in the warm sheets, wondering how on earth she'd make do. She only had a few pounds left. There was barely a scrape of butter in the cupboard, and she certainly only had 'one' trip she could afford. An alternative had presented itself long ago, already when she'd lied on the telephone, and she felt even worse by the sheer volume of the idea. This was exactly what she had wanted, but at what price?

* * *

She approached the building cautiously, half-shivering with Toby in her arms meowing loudly in displeasure.

Toby certainly didn't like the change of scenery.

He was an indoor cat and wasn't accustomed to the unexpected sound of traffic either, so the journey with him in the train had been especially trying. She had almost wanted to drop him right then and there, especially when he'd almost clawed his way out of her arms.

Molly regretted the very second she'd gotten on the train, almost sprinting off, intending to live off some spare cat-food they had for Toby instead of subjecting herself to something that most likely would end with him not being home.

She had tried ringing, but she had received no answer on the phone, so there she was across the street from 221B.

To her utter shock the door sprang open, a sandy haired man stormed out with an aggravated expression on his face, his glasses fogging up due to the cold. It was his friend John who she hadn't seen in months, wheeling around to face –  _her professor_  who looked utterly dishevelled standing in the doorway.

"You're not getting anywhere with this, Sherlock -," she heard Doctor Watson snap quite loudly from where she stood, " – it's been almost three years - you've just got to let it go."

She couldn't catch what Sherlock was saying at all, his voice kept to a low octave, but luckily he hadn't spotted her quite yet. Toby she held in front of her face, peering through his fur, as she stared at the scene curiously.

"But you're going to spend your Christmas alone –," she didn't catch the rest, as a car drove past in the street – the engine drowning out their conversation.

"It's fine, John!" Sherlock spat, and she wasn't the only one who jumped when the door was slammed shut.

Doctor Watson's hand hovered in front of the door for a while, before he dropped his shoulders an inch, and walked off looking very grim.

"Oh," mouthed Molly wondering what the whole scene was about. She'd never seen Professor Holmes so irritated before, his anger in class was nothing compared to this behaviour. Neither had she ever seen him so imperfect with his hair rather wild, wearing only his dark blue robe.

It took her several minutes of pacing, as she reluctantly had to admit that he was in some way her 'last resort'. She could argue her way into her granny's, but she'd spent a Christmas there, and it was by far the worst.  _But_  spending the holidays with Professor Holmes, while he was in a mood, was certainly not meeting her ideal.

There was no way around it however, so she finally crossed the street, and rang the doorbell rather hesitantly.

She expected silence in return.

Perhaps his mood was so fowl he'd never appear, but the door was yanked open. Molly took a startled step backwards, meeting his aggravated stare that turned into surprise, as Toby proceeded to leap out of her arms and scuttle past him.

Instead of running after her cat, which was her initial instinct, she stood awkwardly in silence for a few seconds aware that he was staring at her. His eyes flickered over her from head to toe, like he was reading her, and it didn't ease her at all.

"Hello," she said giving a tiny wave, as she saw his brows connect and follow after her cat that started up the steps.

Soon enough his eyes were on her again, causing her to stumble in her words, "Err –  _hi_ \- you see – I was-," she said feeling nervous, which she shouldn't feel, but the display of his dour mood had dampened her spirits.

He wasn't giving off a welcoming air either, and she felt irritated by this, as their previous goodbye had been the very essence of sweet.

"Packed to stay at your family," he said eyeing the large bag by her feet, stuffed to the brim with clothes.

She glanced down at it, hurriedly bringing her eyes up again, "- But gran was ill, and dad's outside London," she continued, hoping he'd allow her to stay, despite not doing  _Christmas._

She also hoped that if she talked quickly enough, instead of asking how he'd known about her intended stay - he'd let her in.

The grim expression of interest dissolved on his face, as he stepped aside letting her in, "I'm in the middle of some work," he said distractingly, soon bounding up the steps with his long legs.

Molly didn't know whether to take that as a yes or no. She had just seen him have an argument, but he didn't seem at all phased by it. Though he had apparently expected the return of his friend, but she didn't know how much a friend Doctor Watson was to him now.

"You're marking papers?" she said as she shifted off her coat, eyeing him curiously.

"No," he said stopping up at the top of the steps, "Those I finished yesterday." He said it, as if it was obvious, "It's just an experiment…" His words dissolved the second they heard a loud bang from upstairs, and he sneered, "Your  _cat_." He sprang up the rest of the steps, while she stared after him in astonishment. If she'd known he'd been in this foul mood she'd rather have stayed at home really, despite not wanting to be alone.

Following him upstairs with her bag in hand, she became aware of the general untidy mess in the flat, and the mysterious smoke coming from some peculiar device on the kitchen table.

Toby had, luckily, only toppled over a glass whose contents were spilled over the floor, but he was throwing her cat daggers nonetheless.

"I don't like cats," he said, as he saw her enter the room.

"Sorry, I didn't like the idea of him alone and -  _starving_ …" she said, wondering where she would be sleeping, or if she was in fact staying at all.

The confidence she had in her idea from the start had disappeared with his aloofness in her showing up on his doorstep. He seemed erratic, completely different from the way she'd become accustomed to, and it was rather unsettling. This wasn't how it was supposed to go, and by some manner of silly thinking – she was convinced that she deserved this.

She had lied and this was her punishment.

If she still believed in God, this was the right moment to start, as it was certain he was subjecting her to these things out of amusement.

"It's fine," he said, though it didn't sound fine at all.

She wondered if had he been prepared he would have received her in a better mood, "I'm sorry…if you want me to go – I'll go," she said, trying not to sound dejected, as she grabbed for Toby on the floor.

He squirmed in her arms, resisting all her advances, and she loathed the idea of having to walk on foot just because her Professor was having a 'mood'. She was not the one who'd wrong-footed him, whatever his supposed friend had insinuated to make him revert into this state.

He was seated at the kitchen table, head turned toward her, expression gradually softening, "Molly – it's fine -," he said, "I didn't expect you. That is all. You are welcome to the upstairs bedroom, if you wish. There is a good enough bed there if you want some rest."

"Oh," she said.

She didn't want to sound baffled by the news, but she was. After all they'd been through she hardly expected him to ship her off to the _spar_ e bedroom.

"Oh?" he repeated looking at her now, smirking, "Drop your things in my bedroom, then. The cat stays here."

He was playing with her, which tore her between irritation and amusement, but still she answered him with a bright cheery voice, "I'll sleep upstairs."

He tried to seem unaffected by this news, she saw that, but she also caught a brief twitch of the muscle in his jaw.

With a smile she escaped up the steps, disturbing a room that was tidier than the rest of the flat, and even had new linen on the bed. It didn't look like it had been used, neither did anything in the room give away details about the former occupant, but she had a sneaking feeling about who had once occupied the room.

No old trinkets seemed to have been left behind, no matter how much she disturbed the desk, which had the odd paper in it, but then she found a journal with  _J. Watson_ written on it. Instantly she was taken over with curiosity.

Here perhaps were the answers, all of them, or maybe none.

She briefly glanced through the pages; all of them were filled up. She knew she shouldn't be sneaking a look into another man's journal, a man she especially didn't know, and she almost reluctantly set it back in the drawer, before she brought it up again.

Taking it to the bed, she found herself rifling through the pages, which were filled with stories of 'cases', besides the odd note, " _He might know a great deal of things, but he honestly didn't know that the earth revolves around the sun. Not the other way around! He can be spectacularly ignorant about things, despite being so obviously smug about everything he does know."_

She stopped reading when she found herself laughing loudly at John Watson's description of her dear Professor, as she knew it was abundantly rude. Somehow, at least now she knew more, even if she only saw small glimpses of it –  _the science of deduction._

Molly didn't know how long she'd been reading, finding about  _the hound_ , and about a woman who John seemed to be particularly poetic about, overdetailing every movement made by her. Yet, despite knowing more about the Professor, she still felt the 'portrait' wasn't at all alike the man she'd come to know.

More alike the man she had just met downstairs, grumpy and unpredictable, though perhaps he was just milder around her.

She knew not what to make of it, especially when the diary seemed to tell of his ability to pretend. She feared for a second he was doing so to her, though she had always prided herself in knowing people, and he did not seem to be like that. He had the same look in his eye that she would find in her father's, some form of sadness, but from some unidentified source.

* * *

When hunger finally crawled into her stomach, she returned downstairs and found him immediately saying at her appearance, "My wallet is on the table. Take some pounds."

She had just intended to ask for food, and here was the answer ready for her, "The cupboards are empty. I don't usually eat in."

"Really?" she said eyeing the fridge in the kitchen, and the multitude of cupboards along the walls.

"Really," he said turning to look at her.

"What do you keep in the fridge then?"

He hesitated a second before he spoke, "Best not tempt fate – take the money, and buy whatever you like."

She eyed the wallet nervously, grasping the leather in her hands, as he nodded towards her, "Go on," he said.

Molly hadn't ever had so much money on her, as there was a thick bundle in his wallet, which astounded her. She found herself half-fumbling in the shops in surprise, buying the less costly versions because she was accustomed to that. Now she was allowed to buy anything, a concept a bit lost to her.

She did not know if that was everything he owned in the world, but depending on the size of his home, and his car – it most likely wasn't. The whole expedition did make her buy a nicer tuna for Toby, because she was certain he was rather disturbed by the change in atmosphere.

* * *

She made dinner upon her return, mildly surprised when the Professor ignored her entirely, and the food for that matter. Two hours past and his dinner remained untouched, but when she decided to tidy it away – his plate was already empty.

For a few minutes she wondered if he'd fed it to Toby, but her cat was still by the windowsill, his bushy ginger tail waving about. "Do you plan to spend your entire holiday here?" said Professor Holmes interrupting her investigation.

He'd finally broken his silence again, which she wasn't entirely sure was a blessing or not, "If that's alright?" she asked.

"It is," he said tinkering with the object on the table, which puffed out more smoke. She was sat in the fumes of the machine for a while, until she finally submitted to cracking a window open out of desperation. He didn't protest, merrily continued on with his work, which she frankly didn't entirely understand.

Neither had John Watson.

The fact that he didn't speak more did not help on her guilt; it only made her too aware that her father would be beyond angry if he knew. She could have borrowed money from her grandmother and stayed home, but she knew her father would have hated that. And the questions that would arise would certainly set doubt upon his skill as her father.

Of course she could have told him, and perhaps he would have mouthed off Annabelle on the phone. Then she would have been stationed in her grandmother's home, maybe without seeing the supposedly ill woman. It wasn't the picture of Christmas she imagined, though she barely had a painted portrait of how that should be.

Christmas wasn't Christmas anymore anyway.

She suspected that came with age, the excitement in opening presents, and spending time lounged about in the house, while her father read loudly from Dickens, all of it was slowly fading away.

At least she had the book with her, sat on her lap, as she settled down into a chair comfortably. The fire was crackling loudly in the hearth, keeping the room warm, "Do you want me to read?" he said making her blink in surprise.

For a second she wondered if he was referring to their  _shared_  book, though she knew it couldn't be, since he was looking at hers –  _A Christmas Carol._

"Oh, it's alright-," she said abruptly, as she couldn't imagine him doing all the different voices, like her father would.

"Your father reads that every year, doesn't he?"

She looked up at him, "How do you know that?"

"The edition is well-worn, obviously bought from a charity shop. Also, it has a large spot of tea on the cover. You like coffee best, and generally avoid bending the spine too much, as to not sully the copy, unlike your father. You also take care of your books, especially those you borrow."

She stared at the book in her hands, taking in the details – from the tea stain – to the spine, "Oh, right – but how did you know he reads it to me every Christmas?"

"You just told me," he said with a slight smile.

She laughed, letting the book sit on her lap, "So…you deduce, then?"

"You've read John's journal?"

"No," she said quickly.

"It's a beguiling read, despite how  _spectacularly ignorant_  he is in some details," he said looking slightly affronted.

"You lived together, then?"

"Yes."

"How come-,"

"He married."

"Right – but – I would have thought-,"

"I would be in the papers, considering those cases?" he said with a raised brow, "No, the press isn't interested in me. Lestrade keeps me out of the public eye – or else he would look like an idiot. They only ever briefly mention my name."

"Lestrade is?"

"The detective inspector I work with most frequently in Scotland Yard."

"You're really a consulting detective?"

"Otherwise John would have a better imagination than I thought."

"How come you became a professor?"

He shifted in his seat, straightening his shoulders, "I got bored," he said, but somehow she knew by his sudden cold demeanour that he was lying. Molly knew it was better not to ask, despite the fact that it seemed unlikely. From what she'd briefly read, being a consulting detective seemed far more exciting than being a professor in English, especially considering the man right now.

He was, according to Watson, studying tobacco ash, so maybe he did enjoy the quiet life after all, with a man-made machine that spouted out fumes.

"But – English?" she asked bewildered, as his eyes turned to her.

"Does it seem so unlikely?"

"Yes," she said slowly, "It's just - you seem annoyed with us most of the time."

"Some of your classmates are dunderheads. I think you are aware of that fact."

She was glad to be excluded from the group of  _dunderheads,_ her cheeks briefly heating up, "Do you like teaching?"

He took a deep breath, "Yes – Molly –  _but_  I am in the middle of an intricate study, and you are disrupting my work."

"Oh - sorry, I'll stop asking," she said quickly bringing up the book again.

"I am referring to your uncrossed legs," he said making her stare at him over her book, her face turning a bright red, as she tucked her feet underneath her.

"Sorry," she mumbled, fortified by her book, as it hid away her growing smile.

He was an odd man, considering his work, and his habits.

She wondered what she was in that equation really.

She truly didn't know how well he worked with others, not really. Whenever she saw him with the other professors, he seemed to put on a 'mask', sometimes even in front of the students.

"Molly," he said, though his voice did not come from the distance of the kitchen, as she felt a hand tug at her book.

There he stood in front of her, a smile at his lips, as he said, "Spread your legs."

She was about to put the book away, "Read," he said, steadying the book in her hands, as she planted her feet on the floor again.

He was soon on his knees in front of her, her breath turning ragged by the second, as his warm hands landed on her knees, skidding upwards, until they were underneath her skirt.

She drew in a breath, " _Read_ ," he said in a low voice, reprimanding her for her distracted silence.

She cleared her voice, feeling his hands on her thighs, as he started to draw her stocking off, "To say that he was not startled, or that his blood was not conscious of a terrible sensation to which it had been a stranger from infancy, would be untrue…" She stumbled in her words, swallowing constantly, as he threw aside her stocking, pushing her knees further apart, so she was fully spread in front of him.

Trying to go on, she set her eyes on the page, "But he put his hand upon the key he had relinquished…" His head was burrowed between her legs, his mouth lathering kisses on her inner thighs, dangerously crossing the path of her knickers, as his hot breath tickled her skin.

She licked at her lips; "…turned it sturdily…" she said in a small voice, as he started to pull away her cotton underwear, letting that too fall to the floor, "…walked in…" His hot breath was on her.

Her hands clawed into her book, as she leaned back into the chair, trying to muffle down her moan.

Fingers and tongue teased her moist entrance, "And…and…lighted-," she bucked her hips towards him, his tongue drinking her up.

"His - his… _CANDLE_ ," she managed to exclaim, much louder than intended, almost gasping in surprise at the volume of her own voice.

His mouth cast her apart, the book entirely forgotten, as he left a tender kiss on her cunt. Soon he hauled himself up on his feet, licking at his lips with a smirk.

"You are quite capable orally, Molly," he said amused, slipping a finger into his mouth sucking on it, before he occupied his seat at the kitchen table again.

Flushed and utterly bothered by the fact that he'd left her a heaving mess, she didn't bother to put on her undergarments, letting them stay curled on the carpet, as she propped up the book grudgingly in her hands.

Dickens would be ruined forever.


	9. Ecstasy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AussieMaelstrom is wonderful as always for coping with me being slow, so are you lot! I apologize for the slowness and the promise I couldn't keep. My mother is not in a particularly good shape, so I am tending to her like a dutiful nurse. Leaves one little time to write anything particular long really. Thank you for all the reviews and the general attention which has arisen of late! I feel like it is a sort of nudge towards me to 'get it over with'. Luckily the end is near(!)

  
**Ecstasy:** A state of emotion so intense that one is carried beyond rational thought and self-control.

* * *

Having her father read aloud from  _A Christmas Carol_  now would certainly be a painful exercise, with her squirming wordlessly in her seat, unable to hide her blush. She surmised that the Professor had done it deliberately, for he didn't seem to take great pleasure in Dickens, though she wondered if it was due to some of the pupils calling him  _Scrooge_  behind his back (a thing she felt was rather fitting, considering the lack of Christmas effects in his home).

Making her displeasure known by turning the pages in her book with a sigh did not ruffle any of his feathers to her annoyance, neither did he bother her any more than occupy himself with whatever he was already doing before she arrived. In the end she demonstratively fetched John Watson's journal, and continued her readings to figure out the man who'd only some hours ago riled her up.

His eyes had darted to her at that, and she found herself growing smug behind the journal. There was at least something to throw him off with, this little thing that drew his sharp blue gaze towards her. She highly suspected that Doctor Watson's words could not be sullied, especially considering how highly he regarded Professor Holmes – one paragraph stood out to her in particular –  _"We were in an abandoned building, light streaming in through the cracks in the ceiling, and he just stood there – his hand caught in the sunlight, mesmerized by the dust twirling about. It's almost the same fascination I've seen him give cases and complex puzzles, though perhaps not as befuddled as he was of 'Moriarty'."_

"Moriarty," she whispered, and his head whipped towards her, his shoulders visibly tensing. She stared at him wide-eyed, feeling uneasy at his reaction, "Who's Moriarty?"

His attention was again on his microscope, fingers twiddling with the instrument, as he drawled, "Only a Professor." The words he spoke didn't seem a lie, though there was a great sadness in them, and she felt herself shudder slightly before she continued her reading.

Her eyes didn't manage to linger for long on the pages, as she began to sweep her eyes more generously over his home. She could tell a lot about a person by their bookshelf, and his was stacked to the brim – with scientific books, some old, and some of a glossy appearance – a frequent purchaser. He could afford these large volumes, and she saw the books he'd lent her, coupled with others of an  _older_ quality.

Beside these were foreign books, ranging from French to German. She only knew a few words in French, having not been so fully occupied in wanting to learn the language, despite its romantic implications (according to her fellow classmates twittering alongside her).

Everything about his living room was obscure in some way or the other, things of a foreign look occupied his shelves, little trinkets like the skull on his mantelpiece that she couldn't determine whether or not was real (she suspected the latter).

Obviously he was a collector, though he didn't seem to take great pleasure in the paintings on his walls, and she could only assume that they were given to him. Some of the paintings looked oddly familiar – one even resembling Monet, "Is that-?" she asked nodding her head towards the wall.

"Yes."

She was glad he was answering her at all, though he didn't seem much inclined to go deeper into explaining how he'd gotten his hands on it. Molly assumed it had to be family, and though he never mentioned a family, she suspected that the furniture he had did indeed have a woman's touch. They were much too comfortable to have been purchased by a man, though they were well suited for a bachelor. She almost giggled, as she realised she was using his supposed 'methods', the same methods he'd use during his cases. Briefly she wondered what he made of her, but somehow knowing would make her uneasy.

Stifling a yawn, Molly became aware that she was now fighting to keep herself awake, her exertion from his previous  _pestering_ taking a hold on her, and she knew bed would not be far away. She only needed to walk up the steps, and she would most likely fall asleep immediately. She wondered when he too would be sleeping, but knew there was no point keeping herself awake to observe him stalk off in his dressing gown.

Few people still managed to look striking in pyjamas, but somehow he did (a blessing and a curse). She wondered if he'd at all changed since he last woke up, and instead of ruminating over the thought any longer she leapt up to her feet.

"Goodnight, sir," she said stumbling up the steps to the upstairs bedroom, intending to have a proper night's rest.

She would shove the guilt that prodded at her to be thought about later, for now she was too tired to think any harder on her  _betrayal._  In some ways it was better that she wasn't alone, despite the fact that her father would certainly not share the sentiment, considering her current company.

The room was hot when she entered colliding with the bed still clothed. She barely wanted to shift out of them, pondering if keeping them on was an option, but the present heat would make her rip them off in the end.

A small voice in her head questioned if _he_  at all noticed her leaving, perhaps his 'goodnight' was only a whisper she hadn't heard. At that thought she groaned into the sheets with some annoyance, intending to remove her clothes – "Molly?"

She sat up in half-alarm, looking at him standing in the doorway with a remarkably severe expression on his face.

"Yes?" she said, folding her hands in her lap to keep them from fidgeting. She did not know if she liked the look on his face or not or where it stemmed from for that matter.

He walked into the room, his robe hanging open, his expression turning suspicious, "What do you want?" he said.

For a second she wondered if this was what Doctor Watson had meant with his method of interrogating clients, though she hardly suspected she fell into that category, despite not knowing where she fit in.

"What?" she said at a loss, "What I want?"

"Yes," he said with gritted teeth.

"Err, I…what do you mean?"

His silence gave the meaning away, or so she could only assume. He was hardly asking her for what she wanted in life, as a whole -  _that_ would certainly be queer, though his brows furrowed during her lack of speech. "Oh – _oh_  – right – yes – err – I suppose I want…" truly she didn't know, though the words were on the edge, starting to crawl out from behind her teeth, but it was difficult to say outright. They had gotten so very far, how far they would go, she didn't know.

He drew a breath, looking exasperated - his body taut and on the brink it seemed. She still desperately searched out words, any words to explain how she felt without throwing him off-kilter. She did not wish to frighten him, but luckily she found her words in stories, "I want you to…take…me."

Professor Holmes' annoyance seemed to dissolve, though the amused upturn of his mouth rattled her.

It was perhaps not the line of questioning she thought after all, making her almost groan loudly at her own folly.

"Take you where exactly? It is rather late, wouldn't you say?" he quipped more pleasantly now, seeming less nerved, which in turn did not give her cause for cheer either.

"Sir!" she said with hand on her face, allowing her frustration to be shown.

His constant shift between moods was trying. It was confusing enough with his behaviour at school, but she wasn't supplied with enough bravery at the moment to cope with his current tenacity.

"Miss Hooper?" he said with a raised brow, acknowledging her exclamation, but certainly not aiding her any further along.

She frowned at him, a hand clutched at her chest, "I just…I  _want_ …" The words were burning now, her own words, words wanting to splutter forward undignified and foolish, but doing it at such a tremendously slow pace she'd rather dress into her nightdress and disregard the incident occurring before her.

She did not know how long her tongue held, how long he kept her stare, or how long she was unwilling to move, finding her hands slowly trembling.

Surprise caught her when he moved forward silently, making her blink foolishly in turn, as he tilted her chin up gently with his hand. "I do not own you," he said, his voice deep and full of meaning, before he murmured words that shook her, "Do you want me to?"

Her lips could only part at that, while he continued, holding her up to meet his blue eyes, "I do not want to own you…I -  _need -_ you. There's a difference," he continued, a gleam in his eyes that sent a shiver down her spine.

She saw him then.

He hadn't been truly angry when he had entered, there was no anger, nor was the changeable air to him anything but a reaction to what was truly troubling him -

_Fear._

He was afraid she too would disappear like the man who'd once occupied the very room they were in, that she too would only leave a book behind or angered words thrown to the wind.

She did not understand how she saw him, how she saw the softness in his eyes, or the nerves that hid behind those blue depths.

He was still a mystery, yet he wasn't.

He was plain for her to see, his body present, and his mind entirely fixed upon her. She wasn't the only one with words stuck in her mouth, and she drew for breath, only managing a soft, "Oh."

"What do  _you_  want?" he repeated, the minor quiver in the fingers underneath her chin giving his feelings away.

"You."

He released her chin, taking a step back, and she wondered if it was from disbelief. Air shifted from his lips, like he'd barely believed her words, but the soft expression in his eyes filled his face. His eyes caught hers seeming almost shy, before he had his back towards her, walking towards the door.

When he reached the door, he stilled in front of it and said, barely audible, "Come to bed."

Pressure rested on his shoulders, she saw it clear as day, while he moved out of the room leaving her to her many cluttered thoughts.

The choice was hers, she knew it when he heard him padding down the steps, his stride slow and knowing. She heard it in the way he moved, the door to his bedroom opening on the floor below with a creak.

Her legs gave a quick wobble underneath her hands, but her decision was already made –  _long ago_  – and she stepped out of the room. Somehow walking the length towards his bedroom felt longer than before, miles seemed to stretch between the two rooms, prolonging her almost torturous walk.

Pushing through the half-open door, revealing his room, she was astonished how different it felt with his presence. Everything felt different with him, fluctuating between breathable and not.

He was stood in front of the bed, back turned towards her, arms hanging at his sides. Swallowing, she got in, shutting the door, leaning upon it for strength. Slowly he turned facing her, still dressed, with the dark robe around his figure, its silk belt hanging to the sides.

He was not moving, only his eyes swept over her, making her insides writhe profusely. Anticipation clung at her skin, her limbs almost aching by the sheer volume of sincerity in his eyes, despite her clammy palms. She understood that he was waiting for her, waiting for her to seize control.

Molly barely had control over her own thoughts and emotions, all of them dancing about in her head wreaking havoc, as the idea that he was allowing her to handle the situation took her breath away. Parts of her felt half-faint that he was allowing her this.

He commandeered the classroom, his home,  _even_  her _,_ but he was giving it all over to her. He was allowing her to make the choice that he perhaps still felt lingered in her mind _._ Instead of hesitating or letting the moment flow silently for too long, she stepped forward, suddenly glad he was clothed.

_I need you -_ his words rang in her head, quieting her many thoughts.

He'd never said those words before, she heard it in his voice, saw it in his face, and it stirred something within her. His eyes were filled with so many different emotions that she could not know what he was thinking. She felt almost naked before him, completely bare in front of his eyes, despite the layers of fabric on her skin. He looked different, though she knew that he had not altered on the outside. Her eyes glided across his face, taking in every line, and then his brow lifted questioningly -

"Am I – should I?" she started, colour creeping to her cheeks, unsteadying her speech.

She wished to laugh, but couldn't.

Her inexperience was thrown into her face, while he stood before her, but he did not seem worried.

"If you wish…" he said seeming to understand her line of thought.

He seemed to understand it entirely - what she longed to do, what she so desperately wanted to do, as she was free to do so. There was no hindrance here, except her mind, so she drew forth the strength she knew she had.

Placing a hand on his sturdy shoulder, she steadied herself on her feet, and gazed up at his face. His lips parted, eyes flickering rapidly over her face, the hues of blue and green darkened by the lack of light.

She grabbed the soft silk fabric by his neck, and started to drag it off.

She had never undressed anyone before, not like _this_ , never like this, and the way his eyes stayed on her made her stomach take several turns.

The robe fell to the floor with a muffled thump, his eyes turning to her hands that started at the buttons of his soft nightshirt. She almost shook, but her hands found purchase in the fabric.

His pale chest was being revealed at every opened button, her fingertips grazing his skin, and she wished it were he who was undressing himself instead of her, feeling goose bumps appear on her skin at the slightest contact with his.

Looking up in his eyes, she promptly drew back the shirt, pulling it away, until his smooth skin was underneath her hands. It felt different in a way, sensing the rapid beatings of his heart underneath her palms, easing away her wariness.

She wanted to say something while she let her hands slide upon his skin, though she knew not what. She knew only that she wasn't frightened or guilty -  _no_  - she was with him. When she intended to speak - it was then his mouth was on hers, gentle caresses of his lips over hers, before she was pressed against him, his mouth turning desperate.

He was hot to the touch, his mouth opening hers with ease, while his strong arms wrapped themselves around her. She could only dig her hands into his pale back, letting his mouth spark a flame on the inside of her stomach that dropped below her waist.

Neither seemed to be able to stop touching, not that she wanted to, for his hands were upon her with such want she felt dizzy. There would be no stalling, no fear, as she tasted his mouth. But she was still surprised when he'd manoeuvred her towards the bed, backing her towards it, until her knees buckled meeting the edge. She laid on the bed now, her hair fanning out behind her, and her breath almost ragged.

He drew back only for a second, a tiny smile at his lips, until they overtook hers yet again. This felt different in so many ways. Here she could touch him properly, and it felt like a blessing being able to feel him underneath her fingertips. To feel his weight pushed against her body, the heat of him absolutely distracting, for she could feel his present need between her thighs.

Yet he didn't seem in a hurry, carefully aiding her out of her woolly jumper, his hands slipping underneath her blouse, before that was gone and she was left in her undergarments and skirt.

She did not feel ashamed when he drew back, a pleased expression on his face, as he observed her. His hands soon following his scrutiny, before his mouth trailed the path, licking at her nipples.

He was teasing her again, though this time with purpose, allowing her hands to roam him as well. Molly could not hide her grin, though it soon faltered when he divested the last of her clothes, his own following suit – all of it thrown aside carelessly, her laughter stuck in her throat.

He was…he was…beautiful.

Drawings did not do such a thing justice, she could not compare his sculpted form to that, nor did she feel she could compare him to any other living, breathing man. He felt soft, yet he wasn't, and the hardness pressing against her thigh was certainly not at all lenient.

His hands drifted on her skin, brief touches that made her flush, like he was familiarizing every contour of her. And she did not mind when his mouth overtook her again, until she could only feel the rush of blood through her body.

Fingers found her warmth, drawing into her, and they were welcomed there. She arched her back against his sheets, wanting only one thing, her eyes following the sight of his cock that pushed against her body, though stayed away.

When her hands went to grab him, she was caught off guard when his mouth was on her warm centre, sucking at her nub with such instance, that she felt her legs almost clamp shut at being overwhelmed by his tongue.

" _Please,"_ the words coming out of her mouth, unable to be kept in check for once, she wanted him now.

He lifted himself from her, meeting her mouth again, "Patie-," he started, but she took her opportunity, letting her hands grab his hardened cock.

He moaned soundly at that, the sound delicious to her ears, "Don't-," he rasped, but she almost wanted him to beg. However he managed to grab her hand, lifting it up to his lips, giving the knuckles a swift kiss, "Don't," he repeated, "Not now."

But there was a look in his eyes that she could discern, a question he wordlessly seemed to ask. He posed the question positioned between her legs, which soon wrapped around him as a reply, pulling him closer and dragging him back to her lips.

Movements that had been slow rushed forward, passion driving him, until he slid inside her warmth. Words could not describe it, and she saw he was striving to keep it slow. Strain evident on his face, lust in his eyes, as she buried her moans by kissing his mouth.

She wanted him to move faster, to fill her up with every inch of him, but he seemed half-afraid to do so. Molly did not hide her moans, or the words that came forward, "Sher-," it was then, with only half his name out that he started to move properly, his thrusts hard, quickening, his cock almost pulling out, before he was within her again.

He repeated the tantalizing motion, his fingertips on her nub, while she felt her eyes almost roll to the back of her head, a loud groan emitting from her lips that she found almost unrecognisable to her own ears.

She was driven by touch, by lust, by sheer want more than anything else. Consequences – thoughts - did not touch her as he burrowed into her, his hot breath on her neck.

She found the threshold to ecstasy, warmth spreading throughout her body with such fluidity - her toes bending, joy trapped in her throat, as words spilled out of her mouth when he spent himself within her.

* * *

Molly did not know how long Sherlock kept himself on top and within her, but she did not feel like it was relevant. Only the second he withdrew did she feel the faint brush of cold on her body, but he tucked her to his side, drawing her to lie on his chest, throwing the duvet on top of them.

She only smiled, perhaps foolishly, though she could not care, her fingers idly brushing the scarce hairs on his warm chest.

His eyes darted down to her face, a curious expression, as he said, "Not yet," when her hand travelled further down his abdomen.

Molly licked at her lips, "Oh, so we-," she started a bit baffled, her hand moving to his upper torso, her body heating up again, easily stirred by touching him.

"Wait," he said drawing breath, smirking at her.

She loathed him for understanding what she meant, for knowing exactly that she wanted him yet again, but she did not wish to feel ashamed for it. Despite the present ache between her thighs that was slowly twisting away. It wasn't how she expected it would be, not like the books had said –  _breaking of the china_  – it certainly wasn't (a symbolism she certainly could only narrow her eyes at now).

There was a beat, until she said rather uncertainly, "But…"

"Patience."

She frowned slightly, though the frown dissipated, "Well - you're older so obviously-," she said with a wry grin, the grin dropping when he pinned her down on the mattress by her wrists.

Molly stared at him rather wide-eyed, though his grip wasn't at all hard to break from, but there was a dangerous look in his eyes, her ire vanishing when his cock teased her entrance pushing at her moist folds.

"Obviously," he said with a raised brow, while she only moaned in return.

Her eyes flickered shut; re-opening when she felt him withdraw, "Wha-," she protested in disappointment, though his wicked grin gave her reason to believe it wasn't the end. Suddenly he overturned her, so she was on her hands and knees on the bed.

She barely had a second to digest the unfamiliar setting, when he pushed inside her, his hands digging into her waist, drawing back until he shoved himself inside her again.

If she had thought she had made uncharacteristic sounds previously...She was certainly in the wrong, the noises from her mouth coming out with no control whatsoever.

His thrusts were rather more frantic now, though still admittedly slow, his hands on her breasts, his mouth leaving trails of kisses on her back, as he started to quicken his pace. All composure that had existed was lost, his name on her lips, though she had no idea if she was moaning 'sir' or not.

She could barely tell, her body vibrating from the pleasure of having his hard cock thrust into her slick wetness.

Suddenly he turned them around again, so she was on top of him, plunging down on his cock, with him thrusting into her with every blow, her hands finding support in the frame of the bed.

She leant down gasping into his mouth, his fingers flicking her nipples into attention, as she could scarcely breathe with their now erratic movement, desperate pleas for completion springing out of her mouth.

It astonished her how his face altered, the perspiration appearing on his face and chest. With her hands on his chest, she felt the furious beating of his heart, heard the endless onslaught of words coming from his mouth, and his mindless repetition of her name.

The way he said it sounded different, while she rode him, driving herself down upon him firmly, and his hand found the over-wound nub at her heat, and soon they both tripped over the edge once more. She could only think - when she drifted off, his arms holding onto her tightly, his mouth kissing the lobe of her ear – that there would be no going back after this. She could not imagine life without it really, though she knew what she was really thinking and it felt foolish – that there would be no life without  _him._

* * *

Blinking awake stretching out in the bed, she became aware of the warm chest she lay upon. She looked up from her mess of hair, staring up at his face, taking in the sight of his relaxed posture. Smiling she settled more on his chest, listening to the sedative heart of his, and letting her hands roam freely. There was an odd tug in her stomach, brief, though filled with unreserved happiness over the situation.

She was absolutely mad, having relations with her professor – turning into one of those girls she heard about in whispered stories across the school. Most of those were rumours at best, pupils being favoured by their teacher, making others assume the worst, but in this case they were right.

But she hardly expected anyone to ever be suspicious of  _them_.

It was difficult to even comprehend that she'd be there the entirety of the holiday, though she wondered if he'd be difficult this time round when he woke up. Her hand went down his chest, trailing down, gasping slightly at the hardness that awaited her there.

Molly almost took her hand back, feeling she was intruding, though she sensed him stirring, his eyes half-opening, and he barred them open the second she touched him.

She gripped him in her hand, amazed by the sudden tautness in him, the barely concealed amusement that followed, but he kept his hands to himself merrily observing her through hooded eyes.

It was an unfamiliar sensation, to have so much power over one man, having his back half-bend away from the bed, breathy deep moans emitting from his mouth as she touched him.

She tossed aside the sheet covering them, having a good look, and viewing him in the light. Everything looked different in a way, and it wasn't close to frightening, for she knew what he could do…

Molly had heard girls talk, of course she had, and it was difficult not be  _scientifically_  curious really. It was the worst of excuses, pitiful really, but she wondered. In what was obviously a surprise move to him – she bent down by his waist, taking the tip of his cock into her mouth, tasting the saltiness of it, the slight unfamiliar flavours, that were a blend of him and her.

His reaction was instant; his nostrils flaring, hands gripping at the mattress, while his eyes stayed on her. Taking him in her mouth wasn't at all taxing, however big he seemed, and she soon understood by the brief grazing of her teeth, that it wasn't something she should bite into.

That was for certain, though he looked more overturned by this, even more so when she found herself trying to apologise with him still in her mouth, the vibrations of her voice on his cock, causing him to shut his eyes in ecstasy.

She knew then, that she was certainly not doing anything wrong by his standards, her jaw aching a bit taking him fully in, moving her head, while she braced a hand on his hip. Soon enough she felt a firm hand squeezing her shoulder, making her extract him from her mouth, his gaze lingering on her body, until he grabbed her so she was on top of him.

He tucked away her hair, shoving at the tangled mess, so he could stare at her face, lifting himself upwards stealing a kiss from her lips. The one kiss developed, and she felt a pleasant stir in the pit of her stomach, beside his throbbing member pressing up between her thighs.

She sat in his lap, her legs and arms wrapped around him, while he kissed her. What had been a sweet senseless kiss turned frantic, with her moaning into his mouth, as he thrust into her already slick folds. Her nails were digging into his back, her head resting on his shoulder, as he pushed into her. Biting back what almost seemed like a scream, she tried to move with him, rewarded with him turning her face and meeting her lips.

Neither lasted very long, as she burrowed her head into his neck breathing deeply through her nose. It was even better, addicting even. She could feel the sensations creeping underneath her skin, her body tingling, as she almost gave to laugh. The laughter bit on her insides, and she was mildly disturbed by it. She had no reason to laugh, relaxed against him like this, but it did not budge.

He looked at her questioningly, but he seemed to have a reply, "Some laugh, some cry."

She lay on top of him, with him fiddling with her nipples, keeping them taut, "They do?" she said baffled.

"Yes," he drawled, turning silent.

He seemed to be studying her face, and she looked back in return.

"What?" she said, wondering if he was going to ask after the pills she had, hidden away in her bag. For she knew that was a legitimate question to pose, considering the substance that was…

"You call me sir," he said as a matter of fact, making her blink at him.

"Sorry?" she said, distracted by her own thoughts, and his hand playfully on her breast, pinching her nipple.

"Sir is not an appropriate term in bed, Molly," he said giving the impression that he was cross, but the way he then proceeded to loom over her, his tongue licking over the nipple now, "We will have to teach you the  _hard way_  I suppose."

She crossed her arms over her chest, as he took hold of her ankle, "Sir – I don't-," she started defiantly, but he threw her legs over his shoulders, and his mouth was on her bundles of nerves, causing her to shut up.

She was a wreck of nerves, with him driving her almost over the threshold – so very close - until he withdrew, his hands positioned on her hips, "Now – what is my name?" he murmured, his mouth kissing upwards her body, until he was staring her in the eyes, his dark curls tickling her.

His hands were keeping her wrists down, holding her on the bed, and she saw his obvious delight.

She bit at her lip, wondering what she should say, ending up surprising them both by saying, "Sir…"

His mouth was back on her cunt; twisting and turning, making her hands dig into the duvet desperately, until he pulled away a lazy smile on his face.

It was a torturous game, confusing her, as much as it made her want him even more. Him denying her release was disturbingly exciting, especially when he looked at her, yet again, a commanding tone to his voice, "Miss Hooper?" he enquired now, as if he was asking a question in class.

She almost wanted to claw at him, bring him into her mouth, make him submit to her, as he seemed to long her to do with him. She released a deep breath, giving him a mock-scowl, as she said, "Sherlock," in a small voice.

"You will have to do better next time," he said in a reprimanding voice, "Keep your eyes fixed on me." She did, for he returned her gaze, as his lips lapped her up, and she half-hoarse shrieked his name – his proper name – with curses on top.

She was boneless, when he tutted, "We might need to improve your language as well," he said in a disapproving voice, though his smile told that he rather enjoyed that.


	10. Trust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have had too many things troubling me of late, so I apologize for the lateness of this. Also AussieMaelstrom has obviously been of assistance in this chapter, thank you dear, but this has been re-written a lot by myself. Mistakes are certain to have taken place! Thank you for all your lovely reviews and what-not. It's going to be a delight to finish this story soon.

**Trust:** Reliance on the integrity, strength, ability, surety, etc., of a person or thing; confidence.

* * *

Fingertips slid over coarse paper effortlessly, as if it was a part of breathing, an extension of self. She half-expected it to be her turning the pages, a tingling sensation appearing in her fingers when she woke up. Hardly an unpleasant awakening, especially when she fought past the fog. Her brown eyes fixed themselves on the figure at her side sitting with a book in his hands -  _The Complete Poetical Works and Letters of John Keats._ She was lying on her stomach, the duvet pooling by her waist, unable to struggle against the hapless smile brightening up her face. Lifting her head slowly up from her pillow, she propped her chin in her hand and stared unabashedly at him. Confidence she did not lack at the moment wherever her clothes were, though she longed for them to stay away.

"Morning," he mumbled, turning a page with a lick of his finger, the corner of his mouth quirking upward.

Briefly she grumbled over that thought, her head turning towards the window. Snow pounded at the glass, making it impossible to tell what hour it was, "Afternoon?" she said.

The whole day  _wasted_  in bed, not that she felt weary, or shackled by such a thought. Unlike the other days spent in her own bed that would weave into each other - this morning had stretched beyond her knowledge, seeming like weeks, yet disappearing in fleeting seconds.

Hunger, sadness and guilt did not touch her in her current position.

"Not important," he said out of the corner of his mouth, his eyes unmoving from the page.

He didn't seem _bothered_  with her presence, which she knew was a facade. It was barely held up when she laughed or stretched her arms above her head, trying to lessen the aches in her body. She could almost physically feel his train of thought when she slumped down on the mattress again, "Read to me?" she said disrupting it.

He frowned in return, a twitch instantly occurring between his brows, before he raised one of them.

"Please?" she added hopefully, biting her lip, soon hiding her increasingly pink cheeks with her pillow.

"Very well," he said sounding rather pained, yet the grin that started forming on his lips was evident, but he returned with overly furrowed brows to the pages before him, keeping up the charade.

Once again he was toying with her, something she found she rather enjoyed.

He licked at his thumb, prying the pages slowly apart, like they were ancient scrolls worthy of notice. His eyes were hurriedly darting across the pages, until one page made him halt.

She felt wary the second an assured smirk broke his focused mien, making her flushed at the thought that she had _trapped_  herself by asking him to read Keats.

Her fellow classmates reasoning to keep their mouths shut was so apparent to her now, as they were all of them hopeful he'd be reading, though she perhaps understood it better than them.

She would still try to pretend to be unaffected, to play his little game, not allowing him to discern any emotion on her face, so she wouldn't be compromised.

Still she pressed out an expectant, " _Sir?"_  giddiness increasing within her, unable to contain her excitement at the thought of him reading to her.

Here there were no other listeners, no one else drawing for breath, awaiting with anticipation to see his mouth deal out the beautifully written word without flaw.

Blue eyes flashed towards her briefly, before his deep voice started, causing her insides to dance – "My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains my sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk."

It was the same poem recited the first day they'd met!

The intention to act coolly disappeared with her eyes widening and her struggle to swallow. His eyes were particularly soft, when he started drawing her towards him, as her mind reeled –  _how long?_  - "Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains – One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk."

A hand drifted to her breast, his palm stroking over the tip of a nipple that pebbled easily at his touch, "Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, but being too happy in thine happiness."

No surprise racked through her when he threw aside the book, the words flowing knowingly from his mouth, whispered against her naked body, "That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, In some melodious plot," kissing himself upwards between her thighs, letting the words breathe across her warmth, "Of beechen green, and shadows numberless." She cried out the instance his mouth was on her cunt, soon pulling away, "Singest of summer in full-throated ease."

Moisture flooded her, "O for a draught of vintage!" he spoke, his tongue twisting inside her, "That hath been cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth, tasting of flora and the country-green." His warm breath murmured the words against her sex, tantalizingly close, as he gave a quick lick of her swollen nub, "Dance, and the Provencal song, and sunburnt mirth!" Her hands found purchase in his curls pulling him up, making him tut loudly, before his hard cock drove into her quivering sex – "O for a beaker full of the warm South!"

She wrapped her legs around him, his mouth exhaling kisses between her breasts, thrusting into her as he continued to perform the words, "Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, with the beaded bubbles winking at the brim." His lips met hers, breathing out, "And purple-stained mouth-," his tongue met hers almost imploringly, drawing back, "That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, and with thee face away into the forest dim." She drew him towards her, her hands on his sculpted back, nails almost drawing blood, as he pushed firmly into her again making her scream out in pleasure.

"Don't interrupt," he said with an arched brow, a laugh almost daring to escape from her lips, "Fade…far…away-," the rest of the poem dissolved into hoarse moans and chuckles.

* * *

The impatient pitter-patter of paws had been going on for a while, despite her attempts at ignoring the instigator. Her ears did still unfortunately pick up the sound of the dissatisfied clawing and meowing that only seemed to intensify. He was doing it deliberately, tearing her away from bed, and from Sherlock who was clinging to her. She tried to focus on the pleasant ways his hands rested on her skin, of the heavy weight of his head between her breasts and his breath tickling her – only to have a louder screech be uttered outside the door.

Molly stifled a groan by the use of her pillow, knowing that she would need to go to the bath at some point, but she still did not want to wake him. But he seemed to be aware of whatever was occurring, a grimace appearing on her professor's face, while he strained to sleep through it. In some ways he was such a child, especially since he'd pinched the sheets, for they were wrapped around his long legs, but she was fortunate enough to have his body keep her warm, among other things.

Barely awake he dropped a kiss on her breast, soon applying his tongue around the tip. Smiling at the sudden attention she knew she would need to pry herself away from him, and slid away from his grasp, before her heart and body could protest.

She covered herself with his robe that lay on the floor, drowning in the fabric, catching his half-open blue eye peering at her rather petulantly, "Morning  _sir_." He looked particularly aggravated when she disappeared from within his reach, dashing away like a woodland  _nymph_  (words he flung out at her exit).

* * *

Her hands wrinkled against the warm water in the cream-white bath, which had tempted her senses too much. It could not be helped, especially where bath oils and foreign substances were involved, arousing her interest too much.

Resting her head against the ivory edge, she let herself partially drift off amidst the bubbles. There was no harm in a  _quick_  soak, no foul to be found, but she barely registered the door creak open, choosing to ignore it. Molly did, however, jerk upright when water sloshed out of the tub, as her professor had joined her looking very irritated.

"Sir!" she exclaimed, letting her eyes drift over his now wet form.

There was certainly something with watching water slide across his pale torso, slithering downwards - "How long do you think you were gone?" he said tilting his head to the side.

She gave him a sheepish smile, watching his narrowed eyes and pressing her lips together half-ashamed. He shook his head, grabbing a handful of water splattering it over his curls, "And?" he said at this, resting his arms on the edges.

He kept steady eyes on her, while she conjured up a reply, only to be grabbed the instant she intended to speak. She was soon pressed against his wet torso, settled between his legs, as he wrapped his arms around her.

"I would have joined you," he murmured into her ear, his words spreading colour in her cheeks.

"I didn't want to wake you," she said with a smile, as he lathered soap into his hands, spreading the froth onto her back, making her lean forward, her hands gripping at the tub itself.

"Did you intend to spend your entire day in the bath?"

"No," she said slowly, puzzled slightly by the question, though quieting when one of his hands disappeared into the water.

It would certainly be difficult to concentrate in class if he was going to give her so much to remember. "Pity," he said, one hand on a slippery breast, the other skimming between her thighs, "I would have thoroughly enjoyed you being wet."

Laughing, she turned her head, catching his mouth in a kiss, as he played her with nimble hands. Except, she sensed the blatant difficulty that arose with playing in water, her laughter wanting to be let out, while his lips were unmoving against hers.

In the end her laughter could not be contained, "Ah," he said in a bored voice, "A lack of friction."

"Yes, I suppose…" she said when his hand retreated, unable to disguise her amusement.

She was however amazed when he slowly started to rise up, stepping out of the tub with long limbs, holding a pale hand towards her.

Molly blinked up at him, letting her brown eyes plainly drift across his body, eyeing the droplets water that drifted across his chest, travelling further down to his cock that visibly jerked.

It was different to see him in the fluorescent lighting, the white tiles of the bathroom making him more pronounced and certainly not fictional. He didn't seem impatient with her sudden hesitance, only curious, and she took his hand feeling only somewhat timid.

It was an unfamiliar, yet familiar sight.

Once out of the water his mouth soon found hers, distracting her body that prickled from the cold air. He kissed her sweetly, opening her mouth with his, distracting her with his naked body, his hands clutching her bottom.

His eyes crinkled up when he drew back from her lips, "Place your hands on the edge of the bath," he said releasing a breath.

"Sir?" she said acting bemused, plainly ignoring the throbbing member that was making his intentions abundantly clear.

He looked at her pointedly, his expression darkening, as he leaned towards her ear. She didn't understand why he felt the importance of whispering, letting the words dance over her ear, "I want to have my _breakfast_ ,  _Miss Hooper_  – will you deny me that?"

Another game, and she almost did not play along.

Her hands went to the edge, clasping tightly, while she waited. He stood behind her, his hand gliding over her arse, biding his time. The excitement wasn't supposed to continue, her want was supposed to cool, to be supressed and in fact non-existent according to some. Here her body froze, yet the ache in her presented a heat that did not simmer down.

She could hear beads of water dropping to the tiles on the floor, steeling herself, as every other sense seemed to heighten.

His hand kept trailing a path on her lower back, to her arse, skirting around the area, but not touching her moisture. She bit her lip to hide away the whimper, for her body automatically pushed itself against him, but he did not obey.

Neither did she wish to beg, only gasping when he briefly stroked her outer lips, the touch fleeting. Within her gasp the words _please_  and  _sir_  was uttered, and his hot mouth found her heat.

It was a sweet torture, for his mouth would pull back every time she started to rise above, her head dizzy, and her body almost succumbing. He seemed to be aware of every time she was almost driven to pure pleasure, only to take it away from her, stealing it off until she shouted, " _Please_ ," purposely saying it this time.

Seconds later he thrust easily into her, burying himself to the hilt, his hands digging into her hips.

There was no poetry to it, no elegance in the sounds of their bodies slamming together, blended with the cry of her voice, and his dark rumbles that were not able to be silenced.

But still now he seemed apt to play with her, drawing himself back excruciatingly slow, before pushing into her again. Every time she tried to rock back at him – her knuckles turning white grabbing hold of the tub for dear life – he almost pulled out of her.

He clearly wanted to have her beg with his slow languish thrusts that caused her to quiver, until he pounded into her yet again.

It was a slow burning torture, "What – is – my – name?" he said, the tone of his voice demanding, almost sending her over the edge, his cock withdrawing from her heat.

Her mouth had been spewing out obscenities, getting only worse by the second, panting as she tried to compose her words carefully – "Sh-," but he did not allow her to finish, picking up speed, thrusting into her fervently.

Every plunge made her almost lose her grip on the ivory bathtub; her body trembling from the contact, until she truly screamed out his name.

He lost himself at that, his voice a low growl without meaning or thought. They did not stay long in their position, her body weakening, while she almost slurred repeatedly the words, "Oh God," as she tried to gather her wits about her.

A dry towel surrounded her shaky frame, his large hands rubbing through the white cloth, while he made her stand steadily on her feet. He beamed down at her, barely shaken to her annoyance, but that dissipated when he captured her lips with a slow attentive kiss.

He lightly bit into her lower lip, holding her tightly to him with the towel wrapped around her, "Breakfast, then?" he said gently withdrawing from her lips, seeming out of breath. She let a silly smile take over her features when he realised his rather _pleasant_  mistake.

* * *

Upon leaving the bathroom wearing his robe she was greeted with a cup of coffee on the kitchen table, which she took with some relief, her eyes soon seeking him out.

He was seated in the sitting room, wrapped only in a sheet, his strong legs tempting her by sheer sight. He was reading again –  _Keats_ – she wondered if he'd finish the poem, since he'd barely gotten through it the first time. She hid away her broad grin with the coffee cup, trying not to stare too much, "I play the violin," he said making her blink stupidly. He wasn't looking at her, his eyes kept on his book, "Helps me think."

"You do?" she said spotting the instrument settled near the fireplace, bewildered by his sudden line of thought.

"You don't mind?" he said looking up at her, setting the book aside with more care than previously.

"I'd love to hear you play," she said stepping into the sitting room, trying very hard not to call him sir, even if that word would have to come back to her naturally by the end of the holiday.

"I also don't speak for days on end," he said with eyes intently on her face, his legs barely covered by the sheet now, and she could see the sparse dark hairs between…

"I don't have a problem with that," she said clearing her throat, directing her attention to her cup, trying to look less like she was gawking at him, "I like reading."

"Yes…I know," he said, his eyes distant for a moment, and she wondered if he'd asked these particular questions before.

The loneliness she'd perceived in him was even more evident than usual, pushed forward by the silence in his home, "You have an interest in medicine?" he said interrupting her thoughts.

His way of thinking did jump rather quickly, though she didn't mind; it was nice to hear someone who didn't think in the same dull pattern as everyone else. He was like a book one would have to re-read the pages of, so one could ensure one had every single detail, for in one turn of the page you were sure to be left behind if you weren't paying attention.

"Yes, a little, well it's a bit – I wouldn't enjoy being a doctor, but-,"

"Dissecting bodies, Molly?" he said with clear amusement in his voice.

She grinned nervously, "I find the human body interesting, that's all. We all work differently, and there's loads of things we still don't know."

He looked genuinely impressed, "Honesty about your ignorance is the first step," he said, clearly not calling her stupid, but still not calling her brilliant, "I would not ignore your writing though, John does enjoy it."

She blanched, "Doctor Watson? He reads my papers?"

"Every time he is around, yes, of course those visits aren't as frequent anymore, but such is married life," he said sounding truly bored.

She chose to ignore that she had seen the pair arguing the evening before, but the way he proceeded to look at her suggested that he knew she'd been there, though he wasn't about to point it out.

"Oh right, well – that's nice, then," she said taking a long sip of her coffee, the mug almost jostling out of her hand when she recalled something. "Excuse me!" she said with an unintentionally squeaky voice, bounding up the steps to the upstairs bedroom.

Quickly she rummaged through her bag, getting out the little container of pills, sighing with relief that she remembered. Molly could only imagine how it would have been if she hadn't, and that was certainly not a future she intended for herself.

Upon returning downstairs he looked at her with a certain air of scrutiny, his eyes darting over her form, before he said, "The pill?"

"Err…eh…yes," she said.

He looked contemplative for a second, before he met her eyes, "Good." She felt awkward, not entirely certain what to do, shifting self-consciously on her feet. Her ' _breakfast'_  was certainly not helping her nerves either, and she felt like she was bothering him by not speaking, "Come," he said.

It took her a second to understand his meaning, before she walked toward him and settled into his lap, "Relax, Molly…" he said softly, and she leaned into him for respite.

His body was warm and lenient, his arms gripping hers tightly towards his chest. He didn't seem to care that his sheet was dropping, not at all, but his intentions were entirely innocent.

"Si –  _Sherlock_ …I don't want to bother you, that's all," she said after a while.

She hoped he hadn't told her all of those things to scare her away, but somehow she knew it was to warn her if he did.

"You would know if you were."

Some minutes past, his hands lazily skimming through her damp hair, "It's good to know that your creativity isn't confined to making assignments, sir," she said all of a sudden, before she could stop her tongue.

His hand stopped, and she was surprised when she heard laughter coming from his mouth. There was comfort in the laugh, and she nestled into his chest, letting her eyes rest a little.

For minutes they sat like that, his hand weaving through her tangled hair, her smiling from the touch, while he dropped small kisses behind her ears. Being with him was comfortable, almost ordinary, like it was a place made specifically for her.

Hearing a loud meow she opened her eyes, as Sherlock stiffened underneath her. Toby appeared, bushy tail upright, seeming rather proud, as he dropped something on the carpet – a finger.

She stared silently for many minutes, unmoving, until she finally stammered out, "Is – is – what – is that a finger?"

"You did say you had an interest in dissecting, did you not?"

"What?" she said.

"It's a finger."

"I see that, sir-," she said with wide eyes, as her cat sauntered off leaving destruction in his wake.

She continued staring at the finger, while her heart pounded in her chest – the professor was a madman! Perhaps she was one of the many victims he had lured to his flat then eaten! Perhaps, this was why he was alone?

Surely she was being ridiculous, letting her imagination get away from her, and she calmed down, hoping there was a logical explanation to it all.

"I get samples from St Bart's," he said after a minute of silence, while she sat entirely still.

She felt like extricating herself from his grip, but he held on firmly, "They give out fingers?"

"Body parts."

He said it as if it was a good enough answer, and she certainly didn't know anyone who had such things. Staring at the pale finger on the floor she found she wasn't terrified, just mildly disturbed by the fact that there was an actual human finger simply on the floor like it was an ordinary event.

Cries of horror seemed more appropriate, but the whole situation still felt oddly regular. However, despite her lack of response she didn't feel particularly keen on picking up the remains of a person, especially without a set of gloves and some disinfectant.

She remembered something all of a sudden, her eyes seeking out the fridge in the distance, "Is that what's in the fridge?"

"Yes," he said rather carefully.

"Right, and – you do –  _what_?"

"Experiments."

"Oh, ok…"

"Those I have - belonged to different sets of people who were willing to give their bodies up for science, Molly. There are very few who are willing to do that."

She turned to face him, his eyes on her, "It's just a bit odd, I suppose."

"I supposed it would be," he said with a hint of a smile on his face.

"If the violin and silence are your worst traits, sir, you did neglect a bit of an important one," she said nervously laughing.

He looked rather relieved; "I don't scare you, then?"

"No," she said, "No, you don't."

She proved her affection by dropping a gentle kiss on his lips, only to find his arms enveloping her, increasing the heat between them, which she reluctantly broke away from, "Si-," she paused, "Sherlock – could you – err – get rid of it for now?"

He grimaced slightly, seeming to disapprove her skittish response, "Are you afraid of a finger?"

Molly selected her next words with tremendous care, "There's a difference between yours and one my cat could possibly eat."

* * *

After his honesty regarding the  _defects_  of his character, she highly suspected he would henceforth keep to muted behaviour and playing long concerto's (some of which were noted in Doctor Watson's journal with obvious frustration), but none of it came. She was at a loss, though she did not argue with him feeding her delicious grapes, swallowing promptly as the juice of the fruit burst into her mouth.

"I hope I'm not distracting you –  _sir,_ " she said from the carpet. She was lying on her stomach, her feet in the air, crossed at her ankles. He was occupying his chair, though she kept close to his long legs, marvelling over how dressed he was in comparison to her still in his dressing gown.

Her book was spread on the floor, readable due to the fire crackling soundly in the fireplace, warming her cold fingertips with every turn of the page.

"No," he said, withdrawing the palm that previously had a sole grape in it, which she had devoured.

He seemed pensive as he set aside the small sack of grapes, and engaged himself with his book.

Most of the day had been spent indulging in food or lying about, with Toby occasionally popping up from examining the Professor's home.

Luckily he did not reappear with another body-part, though Sherlock alleged the cat had gone through the bin. She had hastily read through more pages of  _Doctor Watson's journal_  that only increased her interest in the man. With her hands propped up on her chin, she said, "Did you really want to be a pirate,  _sir_?"

His hand stilled on the page, eyes narrowing slightly as they met with her open gaze of unashamed amusement. She enjoyed calling him  _sir_  – relished it in fact. A slight crinkle would appear between his brows that she found terribly sweet.

He would perhaps not like being called sweet, but she found it rather endearing. Another word he would certainly not enjoy being called.

"Read more of the diary, then? There's traces of ink on your fingertips," he said, and she stared at her own fingers in surprise.

There was no ink.

She was about to correct him in this observation, when she found herself pinned to the floor, "Sir," she gasped in surprise, laughing amidst her discomfort, as he lay right on top of her, though he soon altered their positions, turning them both over.

She huffed her breath, hair flying from her face, as she stared down at him with a mock-exasperated expression.

"I do hate it when you call me that," he said disgruntled, his arms wrapped around her, one hand sliding towards her bottom.

She wore no thread of cloth underneath his robe, which he found out quite soon with his fingers between her legs, "Already?" he said smirking, clearly finding the moisture between her thighs.

She tried to push herself off him, feigning that she was angry, when he smothered her attempt with a kiss. His mouth drew her in as usual, the taste of him addicting, reeling her in every time.

She felt herself weaken at the softness of his mouth, the tentative stroke of his tongue, as his hands slipped underneath the robe.

Then a most unexpected event broke her salacious thoughts away, reminding her that there was another world beyond 221b – the doorbell rang.

He breathed firmly through his nose, while she stared at him wide-eyed, quickly pushing herself off him. He sat up, eyes darting around, when another long ring of the doorbell was heard, and he heaved himself alert on his feet, "Who's – who's – that?" she said uncertainly from the floor.

The doorbell went off in short repetitive bursts, vexation apparent on his face, "Only one man rings the doorbell like that. Wait."

She held on to her legs, watching him stride out of the room, hearing the sound of his feet running down the steps, until she heard another voice talking with him below.

It sounded urgent, though she couldn't discern the topic.

Not long after she heard him slamming the door and Sherlock returned, "Case. I won't be long," he said without looking at her, walking off to the bedroom.

"Oh," she said weakly from the floor, standing up a few minutes later, hovering in the sitting room wondering what she was going to do, when he reappeared immaculately dressed in an unfamiliar suit.

He looked different, the way he held himself unfamiliar - in the black dress jacket and trousers. The great dark coat he threw on after was also curious, but he only smirked at her as he popped up the collar.

"That's…different," she said.

"Yes, I suppose it is," he said thoughtfully, slipping on a pair of leather gloves, "Now, there are some spare keys underneath the skull on the mantelpiece – take them if you want to go out," he said.

She was afraid for a second he'd say  _leave._

"I will be back in about two hours," he said with raised brows, almost about to step out the door, until he swiftly turned around taking hold of her jaw, "Don't worry."

He gave her a chaste kiss, barely touching her lips, as if he was afraid he'd stay if he did. She longed to grab him, to properly understand what was going on, but she knew she'd have the chance to ask questions later. Molly knew why she felt rather disappointed, and it was only because he hadn't asked if she wanted to come along. Not long after this thought she realised that she couldn't.

* * *

Two hours passed without incident, while she patiently waited, sluggishly sat on a chair by the fireplace reading with Toby on her lap. When a third hour sprung upon her with no voice to be heard, but her own, she grew agitated. Her brown eyes were glued to the fire, wondering where on earth he was, while she tried to eat the stew she'd made for herself. She barely touched her food, unable to eat, overpowered by fear that something might have gone wrong. It was quite dark outside after all, though she knew that he was perhaps caught up with whatever he was doing, since the journal of Doctor Watson reassured her –  _Sometimes he'd be so immersed in a case he would forget to eat! Or he elected not to, his body used to that sort of torture apparently._

But when the fourth hour came, she decided to go to bed. She did not wish to seem foolish waiting for him all night, despite knowing her sleep would be fretful. Molly half-considered going out for a walk, but knew the dangers in such an idea.

She was abruptly shaken out of her stupor when the landline rang. Gasping she scrambled for the phone, hidden underneath papers, as it had to be him calling, "I accept," she choked out, not considering the dangers of such an enterprise, "Hello! Sherlock?"

It was silent for a second or two, "Hello?" she repeated again, hearing someone breathing on the other end.

"Miss Hooper, I presume?" said a voice.

This was not the familiar baritone she'd grown accustomed to.

No.

It belonged to a woman.

Her stomach dropped, the receiver faltering in her hand, "Yes?"  _Perhaps it was a friend of his_ , she thought, or hoped.

Another lengthier pause took place, "I would be careful…if I were you," said the woman.

And then all she heard was the dial tone.

She slammed the receiver down flabbergasted, staring bewildered around her, before she promptly dropped back into her chair. None of her thoughts made sense, scattered and lost, while she tried to understand what had just taken place. Did someone know about them? Specifically, did someone know about  _her_? Clearly someone did and the idea frightened her. She was being warned, but against what – the thought that Professor Holmes was a man of dubious character didn't at all seem plausible! He was not a villain, but she still released a confused sigh, "I hope I'm not too late," said a voice.

She had not heard his entry, too distraught to notice, before he suddenly stood in the sitting room. He seemed to notice her distress, his blue eyes set on the phone, "Someone called," he said.

The tone of his voice gave nothing away, though the way he moved towards her quickly, bending down upon his knees before her - worried more than eased her, "What did they say?" he asked.

She stared at him, taking in his serious expression, while he took hold of her hand with his gloved one. She didn't know what to say, how to explain, but words brought from fear sprung out, "Are you married?" she said.

His hand shuddered against hers, but he did not pull away, "No," he said sounding offended.

She could not look at him, her eyes watering instantly, as if somehow she knew things would go wrong whether or not he was married, "Right…" she said drawing breath.

"Molly."

His hand clasped hers firmly.

"It was a woman."

"A woman?" he said looking astonished.

Her anxiety faded ever so slightly away by his obvious lack of understanding, "She told me to be careful," she said.

The second she said those words he released her hand.

He stood up from his bended position, the distance larger than just space between them now, as his back was to her. There he stood with his hands clasped behind his back, not settling her nerves whatsoever with his silence, until he finally turned around, "Did she know your name?" he said quietly.

Her hands were folded in her lap, her attention drawn to them, before she braved meeting his eye, "Yes."

He kept her gaze, unwavering, to the point of stern, none of which seemed directed to her, "Dinner, then?" he quipped catching her off her guard, as he was employing an unaffected expression heading towards the kitchen.

Molly could not let the topic drift, to let it disappear like he did, "Sir – do you know who that woman was?" she said.

"Barely," he said stopping in his stride.

"Barely? So you do know her a little, then?"

He whipped his head around at that.

"Is it so strange that I should know a woman?" he spat, ripping the scarf from around his neck. Once more the anger was not directed towards her, but an invisible recipient, still she felt he was keeping too many secrets.

"No," she said with a sigh, "It's just – you haven't told anyone?"

"No."

"Then how does this woman know?"

He seemed to be sharing her confusion for a second, until a grave expression settled on his face, "Do you trust me?"

Something in his face gave away that he trusted  _her_ , a thought that made her heart soar, yet when she thought if she…She did. She did not know why she did, not truly, for there was an ever-growing mist surrounding her professor – her lover. It was with some hesitation that she finally nodded, not certain she would manage to explain why.

"Then trust me – you will find out – anyway – I do hope I wasn't too late," he said looking more at ease now, for her benefit she supposed, as he removed his coat.

"You're here after all," she said, not managing to sound a smidgen pleased, despite trying to.

He met her eyes, stilling the removal of his coat, "I will always come back, Molly," he said looking conflicted for a second, until his cheerful disposition returned.

There was something troubling him, and she knew he'd tell her, but perhaps not today. He chose instead to retell his case, "Not with the attention to nonsense details like John however – I'm surprised you did not read more of it in my absence."

"I did a little," she said digging into her dinner, "But I don't want to keep snooping into Doctor Watson's belongings."

"He wouldn't mind – he wanted to have them published some day," he said slipping some food into his mouth, chewing every piece of food rather carefully.

Molly did not voice her opinion, busying herself with eating, but he took her silence with a laugh, "Not impressed?" he said, "John will be heartbroken."

"Err – it's just –  _well_  – he just needs it edited, I suppose."

"Grammar hasn't always been his strong suit," he said smirking.

* * *

A lot of things had happened that day when they'd finally succumbed to sleep, yet, nothing of true consequence. Molly did not allow herself to dwell too long on the phone call, especially when Sherlock told her that he had many  _foes._ She did not know of any one in her own life she could consider such a thing, but she believed him when he told her that she was safe.

This Christmas would certainly prove to be different she was sure, as it was already felt strikingly unfamiliar to her previous years. Perhaps she shouldn't trust him, but she did. There was something in his eyes, something that spoke to her that she should, and the journal of Doctor Watson certainly did not portray him as evil. He did not have a cruel bone in his body, though she rethought that sentiment as he thrust into her with slow precise movements. With every encounter they had, it became easier, no chip on her shoulder, no anxiety to be found, as she lost every shred of decency she owned.

This was what art was founded on, what words in literature spun about, and she understood it. The exhilarating feeling that spread throughout her body, as his mouth found hers again and again.

While she lay on the bed, her legs tangled with his, his hand in her hair, "Sherlock?" she said in the dark.

He made a throaty noise in assent; obviously pleased she was using his name, "What will happen after the holiday ends?"

Instead of giving her an answer he just held her closer, silently stroking her back as he dropped a small kiss on the tip of her nose. Quickly muffling all her attempts of speech, his mouth found hers, and she found she could no longer care.


	11. Innocence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Topics of a sensitive nature will be briefly discussed in this chapter. I am very sorry for the inconvenience. Also thank you to AussieMaelstrom for being beta as always. Also, thank you for reading. There will be one more chapter after this, and then an epilogue.

**Innocence:**  simplicity; absence of guile or cunning; naiveté.

* * *

Her hands were pressed into his fur, the fullness of him making it impossible for her to know if she felt him underneath the ginger coat that kept drizzling on her thick grey skirt at every sudden jolt done by the carriage. She did not look welcoming there she sat, her eyes watery despite her attempts to keep the tears at bay and her sighs unable to be disguised, while her cat tried to dislodge himself from her firm grip. It had only been mere minutes since she'd left Baker Street, the train travelling through the dark tunnel, occasionally stopping to pick up other passengers who she barely paid notice.

Nothing about her outward appearance gave way to any alteration, except the internal struggle that kept baffling her. Molly was torn between smiling and weeping; both reactions a great contradiction to what she should instead be feeling – fear.

The emotion crept forward reluctantly, however, from the hedgerows reminding her of her own deceit, which neither her father nor her grandmother would welcome. But instead she closed her eyes, ignoring her cat and the sounds of chattering in the carriage, and set her mind upon the days that had passed so blissfully, like some distant dream.

Youth was her downfall, perhaps, if she hadn't been so young she would have managed to describe it all in full detail, but gaps still existed where moments flourished. She wished that she could remember it exactly like it was, minute by minute, but the deeper she dug, the further it slipped away from her. Every scenario with him drifting off, some vivid, some vague and others she desired never to tell anyone.

He was her secret.

Their exploits were not to be shared with the world after all, not all of them were lessons, though it felt nice to learn from him, to understand his body beneath hers, to recognise the odd expression in his face, which seemed few and far between – that she years after, would fully understand the meaning of.

Her innocence ruined the possibility of deciphering each expression's meaning, but despite this apparent defect one thing she knew with absolute certainty, with all naivety befitting someone young.

This knowledge added brightness to her eyes, stole away every worry and supplied more – it was truly a contradicting state of being. She had not intended to say it, struggling to keep her feet firmly planted, despite there already being no earth underneath her. And of course, when she least wanted the words to be spoken they were given away, without thought, without consequence, effectively harming and rejuvenating her very being.

He turned silent at her words, giving no reply, but he did not brush her off either. Despite his lack of response, she could not regret them, regretting the moment instead, for she knew how very special those words were. Books were written extensively on the subject, but often those words would burn the one who spoke them, and she did not wish to be burnt for having spoken her heart. Truly, she did not count on a reply, listlessly heeding to his silence, but when she could bear no more; he clasped her hand to his chest tightly, her fingers almost numb, and she wondered if this was his way of saying it.

That he was telling her he loved her, just like she loved him.

She was jerked back to the present, her brown eyes opening wide realizing it was her stop, and she scrambled out of the train, her mind still dwelling on the past.

* * *

Sunlight was stealing through the curtain, the snow melting away at the unexpected rays of light, clearing the otherwise snow-filled pavement. Molly woke up on one side of the bed, having tried to distance herself throughout the night, while he had done everything in his power to keep her close. No argument nor grievance was the cause of her distance, but because she needed to remember how it was to be alone, to feel the emptiness of a bed. She had grown too accustomed to having him there, to have his heat surrounding her and to hearing the steady beatings of his heart. This little distance she had created was painful enough, at least she had one last chance to see him lying beside her, his eyes closed and his expression serene.

His breathing was a comfort to her now; one she knew she'd have to be without.  _How long_  – she knew not, she wished not to think about it, but it would make itself known soon. It was their last day together, only some few hours to spare, before she had to leave for home. She did miss her father, quite a lot, and the familiar surroundings of her room, but those little wants would vanish when the familiarity strode in again.

Molly braved doing what she had tried very hard not to, letting herself rest against him, feeling his arms sleepily hold her close in return. She knew not what she would miss the most, there were too many things to consider and every single thing made it hard to breathe, wetness hurriedly stinging at her eyes, betraying her, but she would not let him see. Forcing a smile forward, she took his hand into hers entangling their fingers, gently holding his hand, the action making her wish that the day would never come, but it had already arrived, no matter how hard she squeezed her eyes shut.

"Good morning," he drawled with the same regularity he had on the other days, but unlike the others; there was a raw tug in her stomach, a pain that would not subside.

She grimaced, feeling awfully childish, properly acting her age for once she suspected.  _Professor Holmes_ (as she would have to remember to call him) looked rather surprised, when she protested in a sullen tone, "It's not." He merrily smirked in return, taking her obstinate behaviour as a challenge, but before he could properly chastise her, she threw the duvet over her head, aiming to remain underneath there instead.

She remained with her face pressed against his chest, barely able to breathe, but able to be overwhelmed by his intoxicating smell nonetheless. Her unhappiness dissolved, his hands absentmindedly stroking her back, "Fine," he said with a sigh, "It's still night."

Molly could not stop the outbreak of laughter when he threw the sheets above himself as well, his arms wrapping themselves properly around her, while his mouth nipped at hers underneath the white sheets. There they laid, hands and mouths no longer idle, but his grip on her almost verged upon painful, as he drew for breath underneath the duvet that smelt of them.

Once again she caught the flicker of something on his face, so brief that she almost thought she was wrong, but she had seen it several times that week, it was an expression of great sadness. For once he did not hasten to cover it up with a reassuring smile, but she wondered if he knew she could see him. She tried not to be frightened as to why she recognised this sadness, trying not compare it to the one her father bore when her mother had died, but it was impossible for her to keep them separated from the other. It was with great effort that she pressed a finger to the corner of his mouth pushing it upward, as his blue-green eyes turned towards her curiously, "What?" he said.

"You look sad."

His brows connected wrought with puzzlement, and when his mouth was about to open, she pressed her fingers against his lips, "You look sad when you think I can't see – what's wrong?"

Sherlock's eyes stayed on her when she let the hand drop, which he proceeded to pick up again, pressing a kiss on the inside of her palm, "You're leaving," he said looking up with finality, a feeble smile marring his features, not reaching his eyes.

Quickly she hid her face against his chest, hoping he would not see her tears, despite knowing that his skin would feel them drop, "I'll come back," she said with the smallest of voices, unable to keep it steady.

He held her silently, while she struggled to fight her determined tears. She knew it was foolish to act like this, for they would see each other that coming Monday, but she could not pretend that it would be the same. There would be no closeness in their interaction, no openness, no easiness to be found in their daily routine, which would work to keep them separated more than anything. The thought made her realise there was no point in shielding herself away, her mouth finding his, allowing him to kiss away the tears that had truly started to pour down her hot cheeks as she clutched him to her for dear life.

She always found comfort in his mouth, in the words he proceeded to whisper in her ear, so soft and low, wishes of her to stay, fading slowly away like her tears. Every word was like an empty promise, his touches telling her differently, promising her something much deeper, as she felt the undeniable pit in her stomach blending with desire for one last time.

Other moments would be had, of that she was certain, but this felt different, even the way his fingers pushed into her. For once he did not have her beg, not wanting her to call his name, as he whispered hers repeatedly instead, letting her silence him with her own lips. The rhythm their bodies made, twisting together upon the bed was not hard, but desperate, the fear of loss was pending, waiting to fill her every limb, as he thrust into her, driving her to distraction.

He covered her every inch, his weight pinning her down, as they lay the sheets to waste, while he stayed as close to her as possible, with her legs tucked behind his back. With every moan and thrust she wished completion away, for with that she would have to leave. But he took her to the precipice anyway, his mouth on her breast, his words digging into her skin like cuts and she was lost, with him following her.

* * *

"Toby…please," she was sprawled on the floor of the upstairs bedroom, staring past dust bunnies, and marvelling over her ginger cat purring soundly from the inner most spot underneath the bed, the one spot she could not reach.

Professor Holmes had been rather unhelpful, only remarking that her cat had  _claimed his spot,_ instead of assisting her in the retrieval of him, since he had certainly caused a terrible delay to her journey home. Toby seemed rather aware that they were leaving, unable to be wheedled out or coerced by her at all. He most likely did not tolerate her having partially ignored his existence, except in managing to remember to feed him, but he had spent the majority of his time exploring anyway, not wanting to spend any time with her. It was as if he knew of her  _lying_ to her father, but it seemed he had at least been rather fond of Professor Holmes, taking to use his lap when it was convenient (or perhaps inconvenient for the man himself). Molly sighed, her brows knitting, as she eased herself up from the floor, "I'm leaving you behind then, am I?"

The very second she had started to walk out of the room, carrying her bag with her, he trotted out with his tail up. "Oh, hello," she said mock-surprised at his reappearance, the cat seeming almost proud by his own selflessness in the matter of his mistress, or at least, she liked to pretend it was that, and not her sack filled with the boxes of tuna that tempted him away from his new homestead.

Toby was not the sole creature to be blamed for her journey being delayed, as it was half-postponed by her own self. Her attention to packing was perhaps keener for the journey home than it had been in bringing the items when she first arrived. Now every object had to be examined, neatly folded and thoroughly considered in every angle delicately. Her spirits were not so immaculate like her clothes, weighing heavier on her when she started down the steps, sensing the weight of more than her bag crowd her mind.

His back faced her; at least it wasn't his work, violin or any book that hid away his strained wrath (one book unceremoniously flung at the wall, a brief mutter of want of a pistol slipping out of his mouth) this time.

No, here he was, in the same attire like when she first arrived, both mentally and physically.

The stiff posture, the rigid turn of his head, his blue-green eyes only flashing towards her, told her of his thunderous mood. He had attempted to be passive the second they had gotten up from the bed, at the point of ignoring her – letting her eat breakfast alone, not willing to respond to her questions and letting her struggle on her own, "I'm not supposed to be the adult," she'd said when she couldn't cope any longer, and that's when she'd found the energy to quicken her pace, hurrying her belongings along, but when his previously stiff  _regimental_ posture faded; she knew she'd been tricked.

Glaring at him she pounded down the last steps, holding her cat in front of her like armour, she adopted the opposite vein to absolve her grief with anger. The plan was not wholly without merit, thawing when he slowly wound around to face her wordlessly.

She saw his eyes, almost red at the edges - an unfamiliar sight, for she was sure hers weren't anything but. Her want to embrace him, to apologise bluntly came apart when Toby unexpectedly purred, dragging her back to her present purpose.

"I've got to leave," she said with a shrug of her shoulders, calling to a more distant past, when they were anything but what they were now; more than student and teacher, more than woman and man, "Sir." The past days had made that salutation akin to affection – a repeatedly cursed moniker he in the end laughed off,  _"That is not a name Miss Hooper."_

" _No, but it is yours."_

" _Well, then I shall use your back as a writing desk."_

" _What?"_

" _I have some correspondence that needs to be finished, letters to be written to my brother, as I enjoy to give him my rejection properly, especially when he doesn't feel inclined to present me with the case in person."_

Habit would not stifle the meaning of that particular string of letters, few, but laden with it -  _sir_. It had been for her amusement; instead now it was to be used for respectable conversation, to give way that one understood respect and manners. The smile that she gave with uttering it would never be ripped away, nor did she feel she could deceive anyone with her speech, as her preference was glaring in only her phrasing, and the volume of her voice.

"Miss Hooper," he said with a tentatively raised brow, the amusement fleeting on his face, while he understood her silence.

Her cat let another sound end any erratic display of affection, "Goodbye," she said, ignoring the  _minor salute_  despite the visible twitch in his face, veering herself through the threshold, climbing down the steps without preamble, lugging her things with her.

 _I will not turn,_  she thought,  _I…will…not…turn_.

Like Orpheus and Eurydice, they were.

Her brown eyes turned to the side, her pace down the steps slowing down, when she heard the upper floorboard creak soundly, revealing his presence on the top. She did not need to turn to see his figure there, her memory casting his image to her easily, but still she stopped and turned.

They had to stifle every urge now, her shallow breath not giving way to such, her hand immobile on the railing, "I-," her teary brown eyes turned upward, seeking his out.

"Goodbye," he said softly, a smile gracing his face, "Molly Hooper."

She gave him a smile in return, ignoring the impulse to jump into his arms, which would make her stay, for she had to get used to this again, even if it seemed cold. Molly kept her eyes on him, unable to look away, until Toby started to struggle against her chest, forcing her out of 221b, the doors slamming loudly behind her.

* * *

She felt nervous when she approached her house, walking the familiar stony path, agitation stirring up in her stomach, even Toby turned restless in her arms, but she hastened to think it was only natural for him to act so. The door opened easily at her touch, enlightening her that her father had already returned, "Dad?" she cried out, while Toby leapt out of her arms, scurrying up the stairs to find somewhere to stalk privately, "Dad?"

Molly exclaimed almost in surprise when the man in question appeared from inside the sitting room grinning broadly, "Look at you, then – lovely as always – had a good Christmas?" he started, grabbing her for a fierce hug, scarcely allowing her a word edgewise, "Was it bearable staying at your granny's?"

She stiffened in the hug, her eyes widening when she remembered one  _very_ important fact, "I had a long chat with her…" Slowly she withdrew from her father, looking up at him nervously, "She said you were on your best behaviour – good girl -  _now_  - I've got you some presents, if you don't mind them being unwrapped?"

She quickly shook her head, "Oh - looks like you already know they're rubbish – come on then," he said laughing, pulling her along, her nerves on tenterhooks, unable to do anything but mutter a barely audible 'thank you'.

She had barely had one minute of sleep, too consumed by the thought of her grandmother knowing and then lying  _for_  her. Molly dreaded Wednesday for she would have to face the consequences of her actions then, but she was glad that she was at least somewhat prepared. There were certainly worse things than the ire of her grandmother, and she hoped so very much that her father would never know.

This was something she did not wish upon him, the disappointment he'd most certainly be faced with, upon finding she had lied to him. She almost forgot to be worried that she was about to face her Professor, perhaps not  _her_  professor, though the fact that she'd left terribly early to occupy her usual seat in his classroom spoke volumes that she could not forget him, even if she tried.

Slowly the room filled, occupied with familiar faces, some of which smiled at her, while she waited with bated breath for his appearance. A few seconds past his usual punctuality almost made her believe he would not stride in, but his familiar shape tore through the room, the bell ringing in the distance, "Good morning class – filled your heads with enough nonsense throughout the holiday?" he said briskly, dropping his case on the desk with ease, before hastily shrugging off his tweed jacket.

Laughter broke out among the cluster of pupils, some of them cheered up from their break, clearly not so easily intimidated as he eyed them all particularly. Molly felt herself almost sit up straighter the instance his eyes dropped upon her, directing his attention quickly to someone else, while she tried to recover over the intensity in his stare, "Open your books," he said, bringing up his own book to the collective groan of the pupils, "We will be treading dangerous waters this year – having sorely snubbed the frequently overlooked bits of literature – that of female writers."

The boys groaned, while some of the girls leaned forward in their seats, their interest certainly peaked, as Molly's eyes lit up in wonder. He had breached the subject of his curriculum this year, but had not mentioned this, which would certainly interest her, almost making her wonder if it was an unexpected alteration, "We have many to consider, but the most famed is Jane Austen. And, no, I will not force you to read of Mr Darcy's conceit and Elizabeth Bennet's misinterpretation of his feelings," he said with a frown at some of the girls apparent delight, "Page 117."

She turned the pages, slightly startled by  _the letter_ , a personal favourite of hers, notwithstanding her previous lack of understanding the agony that pierced Anne, but when her brown eyes sought out the man before her, she felt the pang in her chest.

"Persuasion. Her last complete novel and most memorable piece – most likely some of you are already familiar with this work?" he gestured to Miss Leyland who's hand shot up rather early.

"Sir! It's about Anne Elliot, she fell in love very young-," Molly averted her eyes, keeping them fixed on her desk, "- with a young struggling sailor and he asks for her hand, but her family refuses – so she says no as well, but he returns eight years later, and he's still in love with her."

His lips are pursed, "Thank you…Miss Leyland," he said, "I shall read the letter that Captain Wentworth writes to her – _if_  –-," he stops, eyeing the classroom of pupils shrinking against their seats, " _Fine_  -," she can see that he would rather read it, his hand pressed against the page, a blush rising to her cheeks, " _I can listen no longer in silence. I must speak to you by such means as are within my reach. You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope_ -,"

* * *

Unaffected is a thing she cannot be throughout his reading, though it's easier when he let's them ponder and read for themselves, ushering them to read  _sonnet 116_  to understand what conceivably influenced Jane Austen a great deal, " _Let me not to the marriage of true minds, admit impediments."_  She is somewhat bewildered at the end of the lesson, several of her classmates in the same frame of mind, all of them feeling rather stuffed with information, "Drop your essays on my desk," he called out, while several sprang out, reminding them of their assignment over the holiday.

A line formed in front of his desk with Professor Holmes accepting each paper in the most agreeable manner, and she dawdled, wedging her books slowly inside her rucksack, ensuring she would be last. Upon her turn the classroom was empty, all but them. Holding out the ten pages stapled together, she smiled at him brightly, while he eyed the pages wearily, " _Ten_  - Miss Hooper?" he said narrowing his eyes at her, "Only five were required."

"I like to be thorough," she said toothily, "May I ask how your Christmas was sir?"

"You may not," he said taking the essay off her hands, keeping his eyes fixed on the paper, "Now _go_ , or you will be late for your next class."

She frowned at him, soon walking off towards the door, "Miss Hooper -," he said, making her turn on the spot, " – I had a wonderful Christmas, thank you." Molly gave a brief nod at that, stepping out of the classroom, hearing him exhale behind her,  _perhaps they will live through it all_ , but when she saw him drawn away by Doctor Watson later that same day, his eyes seeking her out briefly across the school grounds, spotting her with a book on her lap, all her thoughts turned towards her grandmother.

He will not be a piece of relief to her if it all falls apart, but she is determined to explain herself that coming Wednesday.

* * *

Throughout the entirety of her day at school, Molly rehearsed her speech in her head, which she was certain would sound differently in the morning when faced with the beady eye of her grandmother. Professor Holmes' predicted absence did not bestow any form of equilibrium within her, and she tried to remind her that if her father turned vengeful, at least he would be out of harm's reach, as long as he was outside of London (a thought she started to conclude would be a good idea for her to be as well).

She could not be certain her grandmother would indeed tell her father, for she had yet to do so, but she was certainly waiting for Molly to give the necessary details. In the end she knew she would have to tell the truth, but with _some_  heavy alterations. Those had to be done, or else she would barely be trusted out of the house at all. And she could not abide by such a thing,  _not now, when she was already putting so many restraints on herself._

Temptation was constantly prodding at her, half-luring her away to him, but she did not comply. Her resolve, however would never last under this strain, she felt horribly burdened, and could not compare it to that dreadful phone-call at all.

That fright had only happened once, and lasted far shorter than this inducement. When Molly stepped into her house, deep into her own thoughts, she barely noted her father's passionate cry of her name. She froze upon opening the door, carefully closing it behind her, thinking she had heard wrong.

_Did he know?_

The fear gripped at her immediately, her grandmother had turned impatient, had rung him up, but upon this thought her father appeared in the hallway, "Brilliant!" he said, his eyes twinkling.

Giggling, she shoved her terror away, "I thought you might come home later, but you're in luck. He braved coming over here after all – I'm surprised you didn't spot his car," her father said, waving his arms about enthusiastically, gesturing towards the sitting room, from whence he came.

"Who?" she said utterly baffled.

"Don't act like such a ninny – Jim of course!" Before Molly could digest these of words, her entire being absolutely dumbfounded, while her father promptly shoved her into the sitting room.

A man stood, his hands folded behind his back. He turned at her father's words, soon facing her, as she gaped at him in turn.

It was Richard!

The man who had saved her!

" _What?"_  she said, but her father did not see her confusion, barely noted the distress that grew upon her face, as he spoke, "I'll let you two talk then. I hope you'll stay for dinner, Jim, You two probably want to catch up a bit." Her dad walked out, giving her a smile, the door smacked shut behind him letting them have their privacy – her and _Jim_.

She barely remembered that she had called her boyfriend Jim, a made-up man to quiet her father's questioning, it was just a name from her favourite book. Molly barely knew what to say, but the words came to her after a minute of silence, "Sorry, I think there's been a mistake."

Richard looked different, his suit sharper, and the smile he gave her filled with _pity_. She felt herself turn pale, especially when he did not stride towards her in any untoward manner, except stuff his hands in the pockets of his dark trousers. His dark eyes went to the recently shut door, soon meeting hers rather awkwardly, "Hello Molly, surprised to see me?  _Jim?"_  For several seconds she entertained herself with the idea that he had come there for her, only to lie to her father, but he looked rather lost, more so than she was.

"What are you doing here?" she said, relieved to find her voice.

A crinkle appeared between his brows, as he grimaced, "The truth is…Miss Hooper – I'm a detective - my name is Richard Brooks," her stomach twisting, a vice grip taking place in her stomach, "I've been keeping an eye out, really – on Sherlock Holmes."

The knots in her stomach harden, forming worse, as she feels faint, "Maybe you should sit down?" said Richard in a soft voice, moving towards her, causing her to jump back. He held his hands up, proving he wished her no harm, "I think it's best you do, Miss."

She eyed him suspiciously, while he remained stoic under her gaze, before she settled down on the sofa, but he does not follow to sit besides her.

Instead he paced in front of her, a hand rubbing at his face, before he said, "It was only luck that made it possible for me to get here – I'd rather not inform your father, Miss, since I know how devastating this news will be on your reputation."

Attempting to be surprised proved easy to her under the current circumstance, "What are you talking about? He's my-,"

Richard looked at her almost disapprovingly, but he relaxes a bit, "I didn't almost hit you on accident, Miss Hooper. I am sorry about that, though it was a way to get in contact with you – you unfortunately fit the profile," he said sheepishly.

Nothing about this man seemed at all like the one she'd met the first time, sounding quite formal in comparison, but she does not want to listen to him, even if his way of talking is different.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said avoiding his stare, keeping her eyes on the wall instead.

"I think you know, Miss Hooper. I think you know very well what I'm talking about, and I think it would be best if you didn't continue to pretend, because you aren't the first one," said Richard, forcing her to look at him, "I'm hoping you'll be his last, though, I didn't know he'd done it again, really…I'm  _sorry_."

Richard's head is bowed at these words, almost unwilling to meet her face, as the words hit her coldly. There cannot be any truth in any of it, he doesn't know him – he doesn't know her professor –  _Sherlock_  – at all, yet she can scarcely move.

"You're lying," she said, shaking her head abruptly, ignoring the tears, for they were not going to be shed for this.

He did not seem shaken by her declaration, looking rather tired, as he observed her with saddened eyes, "Sherlock Holmes used to work at a rather posh private school in the country side, before he found yours. He was everyone's favourite professor, and he would probably have continued to be if people hadn't found out…"

She sat shaking her head; "You have no sister then? Why should I believe you when you've only told me lies? Why didn't you tell me before?"

Richard looked struck, like he had failed her, but he continued with his story, ignoring her questions, "There were rumours going round in other schools in the area that there was this man who was seeking out young girls and…boys – I won't - I'm sorry, Miss, but he was selling them to the highest bidder…for acts of…sorry I…"

She shook her head. She wasn't there, she was still in bed –  _this isn't real – none of it can be true!_

"No one seemed to care about these pupils at the lesser schools, and no one would have been the wiser hadn't the man been stupid – indulging in one of his own vices – attempting to take one of the students for himself – an  _Irene Adler_  -," said Richard eyeing her particularly, " –  _she_ – I couldn't stop her from warning you – she's my client…we weren't sure if you were there, but we knew how much worse off you'd be if we got you out too soon."

"But – but – he works-," she started, unable to shake the feeling of discomfort when Richard mentioned the woman –  _her warning._

The one Professor Holmes told her not to worry about.

"With Scotland Yard?" he said with a shake of his head, his brown eyes staying on hers with sympathy, "I'm sorry, but that isn't entirely true, not anymore at least. Of course I'll get it if you don't believe me, Miss -," Richard's hand went inside his suit jacket, bringing out his documentation.

She held it in her hands, staring at it numbly, " – but I work for them myself." The words spoken so quietly, with such feeling that Molly swiftly returned it to him.

"It – it -," she fumbled with her words, her vision clouding up before her.

Richard nodded for her to go on, but she kept her tongue, and determined he persisted with his story, "He went by a different name at the school, made up a false identity, which is why he disappeared from us for a couple of years. We were looking for the wrong man that entire time, while he was travelling abroad. Luckily, Miss Adler isn't a fool, and – we're taking him tonight…I just wanted you to hear it from me. Your name is not going to be mentioned, I'll probably return later for a statement, if it's needed, but we'll be discreet. Miss Adler has come forward with enough information to sort it all out…"

She doesn't speak, unable to form a word, and Richard looked almost relieved to have been able to tell her, giving her one last look by the door, " I'm sorry, again, Molly…I'll let myself out… give my apologies to your father."

With one final nod Richard left her on her own.

* * *

Never in her life had she moved so quickly, her feet drawing her up, making her stride past her father without intent of stopping – no matter how much he cried out her name. She stormed out, incapable of feeling the cold, as she braved icy ground with her bicycle. Houses, people, noise flew past her, barely one thing distinguishable from the other, pedalling at such a rather that her legs hurt. Molly bare noticed when she was finally there breathless, stood outside his door, her body aching and her mind reeling. She pressed her finger upon his doorbell, holding it in, her insides trembling, while the sound of the bell was like a distant echo. She could only hear the sound of her heart pounding heavily in her chest, bile rising up in her throat, blood rushing to her head.

_It was a lie._

It could not be true; there was no truth in it. She would not accept that. There was not one chance she would, for there had to be some mistake. This woman must have held some grudge against him, accusing him of something Molly could never imagine he'd ever do. He was not  _that_ man, she knew that, but her body still trembled against the cold, the cold that finally caught up with her, as the door finally burst open. He was still there, searing eyes, wearing one of his more unfamiliar suits. She felt the smile break out on her face, the fear slinked off –  _he was still there_  – they had not taken him, for it was only a lie. There were many questions as to why, but she let them vanish for now, torn between laughing and crying, her hand held in front of her lips, "Oh God-,"

Her words do not come out, her hands faltering from reaching out for his face. Something she has never truly seen is in his eyes –  _cold – anger_  – passionately twisted together, almost forcing her to take a step back.

"Why are you here?" he said gripping the arm that reached out to him by the wrist with a vice grip.

It's not one of subdued affection like she is accustomed to - in fact it hurts. She barely recognises the man in front of her, confusion flittering through her brown eyes.

These eyes before her are filled with outmost loathing, causing everything inside her to tumble, while she tries to explain, "There – there was this man – he said," but his hold on her arm tightens, making her winch. She stares up at him bewildered, wondering what is wrong, what is making him act this way –

"Darling – are you coming soon? Whoever it is – get rid of them," the unfamiliar the voice breaking everything, all of her previous faith and belief in him vanishing.

Her eyes widen at him, his grip still firm and his eyes locking her into place.

_It was a woman._

His blue-green eyes meet hers, while her eyes go up the steps, following the sound of the voice, "Who's – who's that?" she asked, but he does not release her wrist, his eyes are still unsettlingly strange to her.

"You should leave, Miss Hooper," he whispered, his teeth on the edge, "Seeking Professors outside of school is strictly prohibited."

His hand is still on her, "You're – you're hurt-," she tried to say, her skin almost bruising by the way he held her, and she found herself promptly thrust outside the door.

"Good," he quipped, his brows furrowing together, "Now, I suggest you go-," it's like he expected her to slam her palm against his cheek, her hand throbbing at the impact, his face turned away from her, until he stroked his face, "I think we'll end on that note," he said softly.

The door is slammed shut on her face, she hears voices on the inside quarrelling, none of it quells her voice, "It's true…isn't it? It's  _true_  -," the tears come, " – how could you?  _How_ could you? HOW COULD YOU?" She stares at the door, her hardened eyes softening, "Just stop it. Stop this…please…"

She did not know how long she cried, how long she stayed, her fist hammering upon the door – utterly ignored - the voices turning silent inside, like she was the threat, like it was her fault, and in some ways she felt she deserved all the blame for having been so utterly foolish.


	12. Empty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be an epilogue after this. Thank you AussieMaelstrom for beta as usual! I tinkered in the end, so if there is shoddiness - it's pure me, due to my excessive tinkering. Also to the reader who wrote 'love the story hated the last chapter', thanks, I did a great job then, since that's exactly the reaction I was looking for. To all of you who have questions, 'some' will be answered and others...

_**Empty:** _ _Vacant, unoccupied, an empty house._

* * *

Her fingers were curled around the duvet, clothes crumpled from twisting around on the bed, but she kept still now. The only sounds were of her breath and the vigilant watcher on the foot of her bed. Toby had not left her, seeking no comfort from her, or food. She could not find purchase or comfort in him, or her covers, which she suddenly flung off. Molly felt warm now, having only some minutes ago trembled fiercely, her body raging a war against her. No illness bothered her, though it felt like it, her stomach heavy, and head scorching, dark marks visible underneath her eyes, a sight that would make anyone question her health.

She was never sick, the occasional cold plaguing her, but this was one thing she felt she could not shrug off in any form.

Sometimes she would hear her father pacing outside her bedroom door, his shoes creaking noisily against the floor, and once or twice he would stop by her shut door. It was like she could feel his knuckles brush against the doorframe hesitantly, attempting to seek her out, but not knowing what to do. Every time he tried she could not find her voice, his roughened hands fleetingly sweeping over her hair, mumbling words of comfort, of questions, all of which she did not feel she deserved. Him pitying her did her no good; there was no reason for her to be pitied for her own foolishness. The signs were all there - hidden, crawling forward and breaking her insides down slowly, but surely. For days she had laid there, her lips pressed firmly together, while her tears had turned dry, her eyes unable to do anything but stare blankly ahead at the wall.

Sleeping meant seeing him, remembering and awakening covered in sweat, her heart pounding so violently she thought it might leave her. Instead a new onslaught of tears would begin, turning to dry sobs, low moans of passion overwhelming her.

Her emotions were too many, frequently shifting from anger to absolute grief. She felt guilty for weeping so openly, for her pain came from a living and breathing man, and not her mother. Her father almost seemed to believe it was her mother, like he wanted to believe it, but he knew something else plagued her, chaining her to the bed, and he knew it had everything to do with "Jim".

At that part he was right, for the man had told her the truth,  _the truth_  that repeatedly burst forward in her head, pounding at it, "Molly…love?" his voice cracked, as he took tentative steps inside her room, admitting a hint of fresher air.

His eyes turned towards her nightstand, the plate still filled to the brim, only a corner of the bread touched, or so she had tried, unable to eat more than a few crumbs, the water barely touching her dry lips.

Sitting on the edge of her bed he stayed breathing deeply, his cool hand on her cheek, "I'll…I'll call the school again." With a sigh he left her, left her to the same thoughts – ' _he' was not there._

If it were all a lie, he would be.

He would be on his knees begging her forgiveness, removing the burden from her shoulders and telling her the absolute truth. But instead, all she heard was silence, and it spoke of a greater truth than she'd ever known. She had been given a lie from beginning to end, her Sherlock, her Professor –  _this man_  – was a lie.

Yet she never wished for Richard to come, to tell her of how it turned out, she didn't wish to know anything, not at all.

But he never came to force her to tell her own story, to relive it all over again, like she was already. And somehow she was grateful, truly thankful for having been unimportant in this case. She didn't count, and for once, it was a great comfort… _yet it became the first lie she ever told herself._

* * *

It started with a small sip, then a bite, and then a swallow. All of it eaten carefully, the taste of food almost unfamiliar in her mouth, and foreign to her. Her father tended to her quietly, like one all-too large sound would make her retreat and fade away, but today he dared to speak, "I…read something in the paper about one of your-," she shut her eyes, clutching his large hand in hers, pleading with him silently to not go on.

She did not want to hear it, rather watch it slowly vanish to be forgot, but the brief smile she had attempted prior to this faded away, "What's wrong?" he said.

There was agony in that question, his own feelings staring at her, almost burning her, for she saw he questioned himself, thinking he had failed her.

But she could not answer, instead she ate, watching his fear flicker and fade away.

* * *

He drew open the curtains, making her blink against the sunlight. Molly still felt heavy, so heavy with sleep that pushed her down into the sheets, "Do you think you'll get out of bed today?" he asked.

She stared at him, watching the sunlight scatter against his hopeful face, "No," she said in a small-strangled voice, forcing him to almost jump in surprise.

Her first and last words that day.

* * *

Her fingers slid through his fur, gliding against the ginger fluff of Toby purring upon her chest, as if he was trying to ascertain that she was still breathing, but she could not will the grin to come, despite her father telling her of his workday.

Still talking, he would pause at parts where he'd hope she'd interject, but she only watched him, torn between wanting him to go on or stop entirely.

* * *

Often she would wonder where  _he_ was, awakening from a pleasant dream, his body wrapped around hers, but then she felt the sheets bundled besides her, letting her mind play tricks upon her. This was such a morning, a morning where she heard loud voices, one of which was her father – the other a woman, but when she listened, she recognised it instantly, "She _will_  see me."

The door barged open, uncaring, slamming against the wall, for such an old woman she had a wiry strength. In she came, her eyebrows arched high, her cane stomping against the floor as she tutted against the flurry of protests that came from her father, "Open the curtains – and by all means _do_  open the windows – some fresh air will do her good."

Molly was filled with surprise, staring at the older woman who seemed taller in contrast to her father who eyed her wearily, before obliging her grandmother's request with a hesitant look at her on the bed. She hoped she would mange, her strength forever wavering between existing and not. Today it was partly there, fuelled by the outbreak of fear that she would get the speech she knew she had coming, the one doubting her morals and sanity.

With the curtains drawn open and the windows bared; air poured in that smelt thickly of wet grass and earth. Droplets of rain splattering the window, leaking on the inside of her bedroom floor, causing her father to look defiantly at her grandmother, as if saying – 'look at what you did'.

Her grandmother stood with her shoulders back and head held high, "Leave us," she said pointedly at her father who frowned deeply, giving Molly a mute look of annoyance, but she shook her head, drawing herself up in the bed.

He walked away at that, allowing them to talk, or what Molly assumed would become a one-sided conversation, the door shut rather gently in contrast to the woman's entry.

"I assume your father does not know you didn't spend your Christmas at mine?"

She averted her eyes, letting them fall upon her frail looking hands, the usual peach glow missing in her skin. Molly did not wish to think of how she looked, neither would it aid her in any way to know.

"We will not correct this. Am I to be argued with, or do you agree?" said the woman with a loud sniff, causing Molly to look up at her, her mouth hanging open, before closing it at her narrowed eyes, "You thought I didn't know, then? I'm not surprised. I did have my help seek you out, to assure you were well, when your father did not ring up protesting the whole arrangement, but there was no one at home…Of course I figured that it must have been the  _man_."

Molly flinched at that, though she still kept her eyes on her grandmother who continued, "And it was, of course, for I have only ever seen someone in this state…once in my life."

She was about to protest, to cry out fiercely, instead, she was cut short, when her grandmother held up a hand to silence her, "Me," she said, a twitch occurring at the edges of her mouth, revealing a smile, but there was a worn sadness in her eyes.

Her granny sat down on the end of the bed, her voice soft, "You must get up – you must move on – I know how difficult it is – but you shall not let this defeat you. It is a small stone in a large lake, barely shifting any water, creating no waves…You are not defined by this moment, this moment isn't you – it is but that –  _a moment_."

Molly stared, her eyes blinking rapidly, the tears swiftly breaking out once more, spilling forward, but the woman before her did not judge, did not condemn, "I…" she started, clearing her throat, "I don't know if-,"

"Yes you can…you can, and you will. You must not let yourself be defeated, for this is only something that will make you stronger."

Her wrinkled hand clasped Molly's as she shook her head, "It is of no comfort now…to know that you will look upon this differently in the years to come, but I know what you are made of. You are strong, Molly - don't forget it…"

And for the first time, one thing occurred that she thought would never take place again - she smiled.

* * *

"She will take dinner out here with us," said her granny testily, allowing Molly to lean against her while she tried to find her footing in the kitchen, legs struggling underneath her, "I hope it's good," her granny said with a furtive glance at her father, laughing when he looked nervous.

He attempted to reach out towards her, at which her granny firmly shook her head, "We'll get on without you – she doesn't weigh much, considering."

Molly was left with two sets of eyes looking at her, concentrating on watching her swallow her food, rather than eating their own. Her father was discouraged from clearing it away, no matter how much Molly said she was full. It was a form of torture that she reluctantly felt grateful for, for when her grandmother intended to leave; she wrapped her arms around the woman who only hushed her, telling her to arrive promptly the following Wednesday ("You can bring a book of your choosing this time…our library is rather out-dated, after all.")

* * *

His voice rang out that morning, like it always did, amidst opening the door, "What do you want today?" he asked kindly, abruptly stopping short when he saw she was already up – newly bathed and in fresh clothing.

She had woken up before him, determined and in possession of all her faculties, stuffing a book or two in her already full rucksack. Molly looked up, giving him a bright smile, "Eggs…I think," she said thoughtfully, "And coffee."

He laughed, his shoulders shaking, and his eyes turning wet, when he handed her the cuppa he'd carried for himself. Taking it gratefully, she gave him a swift kiss on the cheek, swallowing a mouthful before grimacing, "Needs a bit of sugar."

"Right," he said chortling, "I'll whip up some eggs as well."

Her father strode out of the room, practically bouncing on his feet, his daughter giggling behind him, but upon his disappearance her eyes shut briefly. There was no laughter in her brown eyes when she reopened them, none of the usual spirit that had previously rested there. She took a steadying breath, finally walking out of the room on her own, trying so very hard to remember what she'd learned.

She did matter, so _very_  much to those who loved her, and she was bent on keeping the promise she'd made years ago to herself when her mother had died –  _to live._

* * *

The hallways seemed unfamiliar, so did the faces that welcomed her to school. Having seen herself that morning in the mirror, gazing upon her pale skin and dull eyes, she tried her best to push aside the visible pain she saw. But…somehow she felt those faces that greeted her were the same as hers. Perhaps, they all knew the truth now, for she saw several keeping their voices low, halting whenever a professor would appear by them.

Everyone seemed subdued, even the teachers were awfully lenient when she asked them of what she needed to read to get ahead again having missed a great deal. All of them were speaking in quiet voices, like she was brittle and easy to be broken. It took herself some convincing to know it wasn't about her, though she didn't understand what was unnerving everyone, except she was somewhat aware it was about him.

She heard his name frequently uttered, though she ignored all of the murmurs and paid instead attention in every class. However, she still felt far away, like a part of her was somewhere else entirely, as if lost. Molly barely remembered to look pleased whenever a classmate questioned about her health, all of them looking so relieved to talk about such a subject that she obliged them as much as she could.

 _Was she better?_  It was a reasonable question, which she answered only with an attempt at a small smile. She did not wish to go deeper into it, the words not able to be forced out, despite how much she tried, keeping her answers as brief as she could.

Molly knew what the true challenge of the day would be the second she stood outside his classroom door.

He would not be there, she knew it, and she was glad of it. His character had been revealed to her, a darkness cast over what she had seen once as hope - as love.

No, he was now only a shadow of what she had once believed he had been. Never would he plague her again, and of this she was happy, of this she was certain she would take strength and pleasure from with time, but still her heart c persisted to beat wildly when she entered the classroom, sitting down at her usual desk.

She would have chosen that seat anyway - it was only routine, but still she held her breath when the last to arrive came in. A part of her wondering if he'd stride in, but the familiar blonde-haired woman Professor Morstan wandered in instead, "Hello class," she said with what looked like false cheer.

Molly opened her book to distract herself for only a minute, feeling at a loss when she saw Miss Morstan staring at her confusedly, before trying to ascertain if all were present, soon reading up the list of names, stumbling only when she called out her name, "Miss – Miss Hooper?"

"Present," said Molly, wringing her hands a little.

Somehow she felt she knew, maybe _all_  knew, perhaps Richard never kept his promise to her, and she could only wonder why all had kept such stoic faces in her presence.

Miss Morstan's face was filled with emotion, almost to the point of being tangible, "You've been absent for some time, have you not?"

There was some uncertain laughter at that, but Miss Morstan chose to ignore it, while Molly looked at her in surprise, "Yes, professor."

"Oh…have they told you?" she said biting at her lip, half-sitting on the desk.

Molly drew for breath, seeing eyes turn to hers in disbelief, in pity, and she felt herself shrink in her seat, while Miss Morstan continued, "I mean of course your father probably did?"

The woman was still biting at her lip, gnawing into the flesh, while the entire classroom turned silent, "Told me  _what_ , Professor?" said Molly, sensing anger grow in her.

This was certainly not how she wished the day to end, to be humiliated in a way she never even knew possible. It should not come out like this, and if Miss Morstan even knew of how much harm it would cause her, then she would have the decency to stop, before it all fell apart. She had been trying so very hard, thinking this was a step forward, but now she would be talked about, perhaps she was already.

Miss Morstan took a great breath, setting aside the paper in her hand on the desk, before she clasped her hands in front of her, "I know that several of you are aware - the rumours have been rife in school these past few weeks – one theory or another –," Molly closed her eyes "- but to save you some time – and you as well, Miss Hooper…I'm very sorry to be the one to inform you in such a way, but I'm not fond of deceiving anyone – Professor Holmes _did_  take his own life…And we are all very sorry for that."

She opened her eyes again, gaping at the woman.

* * *

" _Jumped off the roof of a hospital."_

" _Left a note behind – I wonder what it said – probably some sonnet, or something?"_

" _My dad's aunt did the same, nasty bit of business with some gas, sounds like a cleaner death in a way though…"_

" _Do you think it hurt?"_

She held her books tightly to her chest, her rucksack hitting her hip every once in a while, her walk almost turning into a sprint. It had only been a few minutes since they'd been let out from the classroom, the professor trying to make her stay, as she had seen her distress. Molly did not know what other emotion she could have but that, yet she felt undeniably cold, for when it was known to her, it was the only thing she heard on the school grounds. People's whispered conversations gave meaning to her now, all of them wondering why the  _once_  great Sherlock Holmes had taken such a leap. It had taken all her strength not to cry in the classroom, pressure building up in her chest making any coherent thought or conversation impossible.

_He was…he was…_

She shook her head, ignoring the newspapers strewn across the school with pupil's noses hovering above the printed word with morbid interest she did not own. It had all been absolutely invisible to her when she had arrived, too lost in her own thoughts and confusion to even manage to see them. For hours it had only been her own pain that had counted, her own disappointment, but this was bigger than her. So much bigger, in a way she knew not how to comprehend. Her thoughts drifted in and out trying to understand –  _why_ – why he'd done it, but from the sparse words of conversation she'd caught – none of them mentioned of that which Richard had told her of. None of them spoke of the devious acts or repulsive behaviour. No, it was only his suicide, his supposed reputation thrown of kilter for a few stolen moments, only to be reset after his fall.

Sitting down on her favourite bench she tried to collect herself, her nerves so taut she did not know if she could. Obediently she sat there, trying to usher away the temptation to go – to find him – to find out the truth.

He could not be…he could not… _be dead._

A wish appeared within her, one she didn't dare think of _now_  when it was too late – that Richard had only spoken lies, and  _he_ – he had sent her away out of fear for her own life.

_No, no, none of it was true._

She would not believe a word of it, but a voice of a passing classmate broke through,  _"He got accused of faking cases – wasn't true though…fat load of good it did him – came out after he was dead."_  Had she truly been tricked, had she let a stranger feed her inner fears, the ones supposing that he never truly cared for her? That the woman's voice on the phone - _Irene Adler_ was not in fact warning her about him, but someone else in entirely? Someone Irene knew that Professor Holmes would never tell her of, perhaps due to his pride, or perhaps because he could not? Molly ushered away the thoughts, not allowing them to take hold of her, her stomach brimming with anxiety, but her eyes landed on the folded newspaper on the end of the bench.

Despite herself she picked it up, skimming through it briefly, trying to pick apart some piece of information, wanting to understand, to make the feeling of utter foolishness go away, only to halt when she saw –

**YOUNG WOMAN FOUND DEAD**

_This Tuesday morning a most puzzling case, befitting the mind of the lately departed Sherlock Holmes fell into the lap of the police, as a young woman was found dead in a flat bolted shut from the inside. Her name was Irene Alder, age –_

With that she flung the paper from her hand, got to her feet and ran without considering the books she'd dropped on the ground.

* * *

' _Death erases all sins'_ , she'd read once, but what if there had been no sins,  _only death_. Standing upon the familiar pavement, she felt her stomach twist, the sounds of the busy street bleeding away, until she felt it was only her and his door. Every nerve, every little particle of strength evaporated staring up at his window. Just a glimpse, it was all she needed – a light, an open window –  _a sign_. She could  _still_ be angry,  _still_  avoid him, for he was  _still_ there. But there was no light, no open window, and no indication of him to be found.

The door did not jerk open, did not budge.

_He could not…_

_He was not…_

_There was no reason._

_No reason for him to…_

He was still alive, still breathing, still yearning and so was she. Finally her feet drew her forward, a magnificent feat for her, and one she thought she would not have the will to do. Her hand found the door, but before she truly reached it, she crumbled on the doorstep. Her tears finally fell, her hands grabbing for the doorknob that did not shift underneath her touch.

_Of course…_

Molly wished for him then, hand clasped in front of her mouth, muffling her sob, while she shook her head.

Richard had tricked her.

If he had been…if there had been  _any_  truth in it…then it would all have been known. But –  _he_ – he had been like ice, sending her away, ensuring she'd never…"Excuse me…am I interrupting something?" said a voice.

She looked up wide-eyed, half-hoping to see him, only to have these thoughts dashed, recognising the man in front of her instantly, "Doctor Watson!"

He looked at her with furrowed brows, "Who are you? Sorry, my apologies…let me help you up," he gently took her hand, getting her up on her feet.

Molly didn't know what to say when faced with such a man. He must have not heard of her, but still she tentatively said her name on the fleeting chance he did. She was all amazement when she saw his eyes widen in response, his face paling.

* * *

Quiet. That's how it felt, every inch of the place like a tomb, dust gathering on the surfaces, but things still looked  _moved_ , as if they had been left like a reminder. Life had once filled the place, every object telling of it, now resting idly awaiting their masters nimble fingers, "I haven't…I haven't managed to clear it all up yet," said John clearing his throat loudly, his back to her, as he stood in the kitchen.

He busied himself with the cups that clanged loudly against one another, bringing them with him, handing one to her. Settling it aside, she covered herself with the blanket that he had draped across her shoulders when he caught on that she was shivering, which she had not.

John Watson was very much the man she had imagined and read about - attentive - kind, but this was not the state she had envisioned them meeting in. His eyes were red around the rim, yet he did not shed any tears in front of her; while hers were dripping down the edge of her nose, unwavering.

Everything about the man in front of her confirmed her suspicion, that she had been wrong and that _he_  was gone. She could not keep the tears away, longing to hear him speak of it, and wishing him to never utter a single word.

His confirmation would be her undoing.

He settled down in a chair, giving her a brief attempt of a smile that fell when he realised where he was sitting – in  _his_ chair. Carefully he moved about in the chair for a few seconds, taking to stand up instead, the cup in his hand rattling in its saucer. The pair of them obviously sharing the same mutual respect for something that was insignificant to others, but wasn't to them. His eyes were on her, and she was aware of how she walked with so much familiarity into the room, of how she did not feel uncomfortable settled against the coarse fabric of the chair. She wasn't scared that he understood, for she assumed her name had been told to him by…

"Please drink some tea, it'll help," he said, adding an encouraging, "Doctor's orders."

He was still standing, nodding his head at her making her take an experimental sip of the tea. The trembling of her lips almost caused the warm contents to pour down her skirt, but she did not mind the burns, if there'd be any, "Thanks."

Furiously he blinked at her, the muscles of his jaw clearly clenched, his hand bawling into fists, "So…how long?" he said, seeming out of sorts for even asking.

"What do you mean?" she said not quite understanding if he asked about them, for if he knew about  _her_ , then he wouldn't be asking to begin with.

"Oh, right," said John with an attempt of a laugh that quickly broke away, "Sorry, I just – right – it's – he'd never – I never assumed he'd – sorry."

It's her lack of a proper answer that seems to give him some relief, though there is no judgement in his eyes, only grief and somehow it seems harsher. For his character to her was so obvious, so blatant on his shoulders – the very essence of good in his mannerisms that she knew, she knew his grief was real and not without cause. He would not grieve an immoral man, the emotions barely contained in his movements, so he would not prevent his anger to be shielded.

Suddenly the tea felt bitter in her throat, although teeming with sugar, making her set it aside. Her eyes stayed on the spoon by her cup, catching the light that fluttered from the window. It was a lovely day outside, such darling sunlight with its promise of spring in what had been an icy month - "How?" she said breaking the silence.

She already knew the answer, but she wanted to hear it spoken from someone she knew who cared. Neither did she expect him to be quick about it, his pauses justified, and his expressions shared with her. Even if they were strangers to one another - he was familiar to her by his own written words and by that – she had one last delicate connection to him, to her professor, to Sherlock.

"He – he – jumped off a building," said John his voice breaking ever so slightly, making her own breath catch in her throat.

Only now did it truly feel real –  _final_  – the way his back seemed to straighten at words, as if he barely understood as well.

"Which?" she said.

She didn't need to know, not really, but the further she prolonged it, the longer she would have the chance to speak of him.

He wasn't gone until the very last words were said, until every moment had been spoken of, and every memory wrapped away in her mind.

"It was…a hospital called St Bartholomew's," he said with a low voice, though she still heard him clearly, his words tripping briefly.

"Was anyone there?"

"Yes…"

"Who?"

"I – I saw it," said John, his blue eyes turning to the floor, his hands clenching once more. She saw the raw pain there, the defeated expression, the complete helplessness he must have felt faced with such a thing, and tears fled her silently.

"Why?" she said, her voice no longer clear. It was the only question she wanted to ask, the one she dreaded to ask, but she could not avoid it. Somehow this was all her fault; somehow she knew she was to be blamed.

He let out a breath, immediately stepping around the room, as if the words would flow easily, "He – he told me he was a fake - at least that's what-,"

"What?" she said.

John shook his head, pressing his lips together, stopping up entirely, "There was a note…"

His eyes met her then, watery and broken. John did not seem to want to share the words that had been between the pair of them, and she didn't know if she had the courage to hear them either, to hear any of it.

"Do you have it?" she asked, wavering between want and horror. She wanted to understand, truly understand and perhaps his words would give her some comfort, but she knew – she knew they wouldn't. They'd be like any scrap of paper she had kept from her mother, the innocent notes that she hoped were pouring with meaning, but only gave her more ache than anything else. Loss always made any memory tender, every little conversation having some meaning that it before didn't even carry.

"No," said John bowing his head, shoulders hunched, "They took it – no one seems –  _well_  – I don't know."

Her fingers dug into her thigh, wanting to feel them clawing into the layers of her skirt, as she sat upon the chair, when John spoke out once more, "He never told me before you know – about  _you_ – this wasn't supposed – this was only for a case."

He finally sat down in Sherlock's chair, a ghost of a smile on his face, riddled with frustration, "Some years ago – we heard about this man called Moriarty – he'd been behind some of the crimes in London, and we – or –  _he_  figured out that he was a Professor at a prestigious school. Sherlock…decided that he'd take a place there, so we could wheedle him out, as it was supposed to be obvious, but – Moriarty was one step ahead of him. I know he was my friend…but he was an idiot…I told him to stop, but he didn't. He kept on going at it, and that was his weakness."

"Moriarty?" she whispered, she'd asked him about that name before, but he'd told her…"Is his real name Richard?"

"How did you know?" he said surprised.

It took her all her remaining strength to not shed more tears, "I just do…" she said blinking furiously, quickly changing the subject, "But what do you mean weakness?"

John's settled aside his own untouched cuppa, soon rubbing at the features of his face, "He'd…sometimes do – drugs," he said with a scowl, "With a mind like his you'd never think that he'd do them, but he did when he got bored. And – that's how Moriarty got him out of the school – made some young girl pretend she had-,"

"Irene Adler?" she said, the name hanging on the tip of her tongue. One moment she had thought she had gone mad, that she was just hopeful, but the way John looked at her.

"Did you know her?" he said.

"Not really," she said staring at her hands.

He took a breath before he continued, "It went to hell after that – complete uproar at the school of course – his brother forced him out of the country. He thought it would do him some good, so did I, but he only got worse. Sherlock had lost a case, been duped in the worst way, ruining his reputation – even if he pretended like he didn't care – he bloody well did – and – in that note – it said – he  _found_  you."

At this he had to be wrong, she stared, "I haven't – I've never been outside of London," she said in a small voice.

"I know…I mean – he'd apparently been at some church, or something. He never really told me properly  _how_  - always annoyed me, but he told me he'd gotten clean there…I thought he was dead – he'd been gone for three years…In fact I almost expect him to…"

The words hung over them, her throat feeling constricted, causing her to swallow in pain. Fortunately he broke it, sparing her from thinking too much, "The thing is – he's never – well – I don't know for a fact that he ever believed in anything really. He was definitively not religious, but I was right when I thought he hadn't told me everything there was. Of course he hadn't – it's only now I know."

"I don't understand-,"

"It was your words…it was  _your_  words that saved him."

"My –  _my_  words?"

He was immediately up on his feet, picking up a piece of paper from the table, which he handed to here, "I found this after…he'd mentioned you in his note…I didn't make the connection until I saw the signature –  _M. Hooper_ …The thing is I don't think he knew it right there and then, at least not to begin with, but that is yours isn't it?"

She stared at the previously crumpled paper that had been torn, then pieced together, so smooth that the texture of the paper was partly faded away, but the words still stood promptly out to her. It was the words she'd written after her mother's death, the words she never thought anyone important would ever see, "Yes, but I – he – he never said."

John snorted to her amazement, as he settled back into the chair with a sigh, "He's never been big on telling things…I mean he wasn't – err – I just…sorry," he swiped at his eye carefully, "Well – when he came back – he told me he was clean and his brother Mycroft didn't believe a word-,"

"And he had to go to the doctor's every week," she said dully, remembering his weekly visits every Wednesday – those that forced them meet each other. If she had ever believed in faith it was now, truly it was now, slowly folding the paper in her hand with outmost care, not wanting to see a child's words.

"Yes!" said John grinning, "He did it - oddly enough, thought he'd tell Mycroft to shove off, but he – seemed different, you know. Changed somehow, and I thought he'd properly sobered up, but then he started going on about Moriarty again. He'd been doing so well up to that point, everyone seemed to trust him again…"

She bit at her lip, trying to usher away her tears, but they would not desist.

"He told me that Moriarty wasn't a professor, but a student – a student who'd killed one of his classmates over a silly joke making it look like an accident…I didn't believe him, you know, and he was quite angry with me. Then he became a professor at some school – maybe  _your_  school-," said John with a gesture to her, she nodded back at him, a strange smile on his face, "I think he was looking for Moriarty, I'm not sure, but I think he knew Moriarty was – misusing students – luring them away, so they'd do him favours, as well as – other things."

"I started to believe Sherlock, properly this time, but he said he was working alone now. He wouldn't even talk to me about it. Except when he asked for Mary to be a substitute – she's my wife - well – and then, all of a sudden I'm standing with his note – this  _bloody_ note –,"

John's voice broke. He was rasping for breath, "Sorry," he said, repeating the word several times, "I – just…you're probably wondering if…I should tell you what was in that note."

"No," she said shaking her head furiously, not wishing to see a word of it anymore, not wanting to see  _goodbye_  written on the paper, "No – I don't – why – if he was clean - then why-,"

"I don't know," said John, "I just know now, that if there was one thing he believed in - it was _you_."

Sobs wrecked at her then, but she kept shaking her head, "But-," - there  _had_  been a woman; she'd heard a woman's voice.

"I'm just glad me and Mary visited before school started-," he said, "He seemed happy - didn't seem at all lonely, but I suppose you'd been here, then?"

"Yes, I-," she suddenly understood, "Oh – I was – I was here – ages ago – but there was a woman upstairs – he wouldn't let me in-,"

John looked grim, "We wondered who was downstairs – Mary was calling out for me, but I was upstairs looking over some old things – that was you at his door?"

She shut her eyes, taking a deep shaky breath, trying not to feel worse, but it was too late…

"He'd been alright up to that point - before he answered the door someone rang him up, but I suppose  _that_  wasn't you?"

He had done everything,  _everything_ to keep her safe.

"No."

"It must have…" John pinched his nose, turning quiet, "Moriarty, or bloody Richard Brook – as he introduced himself to us, probably laughing because Sherlock hadn't figured it out and now…explains why he was so hell bent on getting rid of us…kept distancing himself from everyone. He knew something was going on and he –," he stopped once he saw her face.

She told John everything, leaving some things out, wanting to keep some things close to her heart. Relief poured through her from telling, having someone know, but it did not really help in the way she wanted.

John told her what he remembered of the note, but it did not soothe her anger, her sorrow, as she could not understand… Since her sir, her professor, her Sherlock's last words to her, told to her by John when he got her home that night was, " _Live for me, Molly Hooper. Live."_


	13. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are on the last page, thank you to AussieMaelstrom for beta and everyone for reading.

_So, then this book is closed. Dear Fancies mine,_ __  
_That streaked my grey sky with your wings of light,_ __  
_And passing fanned my burning brow, benign,-_ __  
_Return, return to your blue Infinite!_ _Thou, ringing Rhyme, thou, Verse that smooth didst glide,_ __  
_Ye, throbbing Rhythms, ye, musical Refrains,_ __  
_And Memories, and Dreams, and ye beside_ __  
_Fair Figures called to life with anxious pains,_ _We needs must part. Until the happier day_ __  
_When Art, our Lord, his thralls shall re-unite,_ __  
_Companions sweet, Farewell and Well away,_ _  
__Fly home, ye may, to your blue Infinite!_

_**\- Paul Verlaine (1895)** _

* * *

_England 1958_

Sweeping dust away with her woolly sock had been a trying pastime, a reminder that no one was washing the floors, that her wiry arms did not have enough strength to clean every inch of dust from the house, despite her best attempts. The actions kept her busy, kept her away from reminders, as one of them was hidden beyond the door she lingered in front of. Her hand poised on the cool doorknob, the one she didn't dare turn.

She knew it was locked, knew there was no point on braving it, as she would get no further past this point – "Dad?" she said hesitantly, pushing her ear to the door, hoping to hear him.

No, she only heard a mumbled word, which she knew wasn't spoken to her, not really. Her lips trembled slightly, her brown eyes dropping to the floor, while the silence continued. Sometimes he would break it, his feet padding through the hallways in the dark, like he didn't want to see her.

She knew why – she herself was like the dust –  _a reminder –_ her mother was gone, and she might not have grown entirely into her own skin, but she knew that her father could see her. Molly wished to see the same when she looked in the mirror, but she only looked tired, felt hollow.

Every day well-wishers would come, passing on condolences for their loss, bringing food, giving short awkward speeches, which she bore with an attempt at a smile. People she'd never talked to, neighbours, supposed friends all tried to interrupt their grieving, and often she would pretend they weren't home.

She wanted them to believe they were somewhere else, instead of locked up and hiding from her mother's death. In some ways, she felt her innocence dissipating, or perhaps it was already gone, dissolving into thin air. Death was so close now, stranger's flowers and words were reminders of how unwelcome it was, but no one could challenge it. Whenever it had the chance it could take you, and already she felt the cold tendrils of this imaginary foe grasping for her father, "Dad?" she repeated, clearing her voice, urging him to hear her, to let her rip through the walls he was building up, thicker than wood or brick.

The sound of a glass shattering made her take a step back, feeling for a moment frightened until a croaky voice cut her fears away, "Just…give me a moment love."

She knew what that meant, her eyes watering so easily, like they'd been doing of late, "Okay," she said rushing off, her steps quick, causing her cat Toby to trot after her hopefully, but she paid him no mind. There was one remedy, one balm to her pain, and she knew it was madness, but she wanted to be heard. It would be her last prayer, though when she scrambled forward a stack of paper, holding a pen tightly in her hand, she knew there would be other moments like this, but this was her first.

" _If there is ever anything bothering you – write about it – let out the pain, all the frustration and you can forget it much more easily."_

" _Even if it is about Billy Smith being an idiot?"_

" _Pen his name down with idiot underlined if it makes you feel better, but try to keep it off the walls love."_

Forgetting her mother was out of the question, fresh tears blurring her sight, dripping upon the words she was spreading thickly upon the paper. With every movement of her pen, every turn of the page – she twisted her grief, her anger – into sentences that she felt barely conveyed what she was trying to say. Years would pass before she put pen to paper in the same manner again.

* * *

_1962, France_

" _I do not see how long you will last if you continue this path, perhaps this trip abroad will finally let you waste your time properly, don't you think?"_  - bitter laughter swept from his cracked lips, dragging his feet along the mud, his eyes twitching against the rain. His body was almost an empty shell of bones fuelled by pure instinct, by self-loathing – this was how falling from _grace_  felt like. Tugging at his coat, he drew up the collar, trying to shield himself from the cruel downpour that had already soaked his clothes.

Dying would be easier,  _simple_  even, for then his head would finally settle, letting the cravings subside when his body took the final plunge into the never-ending darkness of eternal sleep. In that space there would be no more wants, for what reasons did he have to  _cherish life_? His mouth moved, spitting out the words, as his body had begun to ache.

Nothing about being an outcast had subdued his anger, his hatred for his invisible nemesis, and the victor in a game he never truly wanted to play. The way it had all ended seeded doubt in everyone, doubting his faculties and sense, even morality, but he knew those doubts already existed, having now been brought to light by well-calculated lies.

He had underestimated the game, far less of a player when meeting one who matched him beyond any shadow of a doubt. It was supposed to be something to pass the time with, as he had questioned the whispers were true, but in a moment of sublime foolishness he found himself thwarted.

Letting his addiction… _no – not addiction_  – his evasion of the dull vapid young minds of his pupils best him to the point of him being found in such a compromising position with the headmaster's youngest daughter. Adler had not listened to a word, of course, though he barely had the faculties to utter them, but his brother had known from one condescending look.

He slipped upon the hill he was lumbering along, suddenly toppling into the mud, his entire front covered with grime, all expressions on his brow like that of surrendering, but his body still fighting to get out of the slippery grass that held him down in his weakened state. This  _creature_ was only half the man he had been, a mere shadow, for the temptations had been too many. They had all been easily found and surrendered to the second he'd lost his brother's over-paid lackeys.

Never had he intended to follow his brother's intended route, as he knew death lay much quicker there. No, he would go by his own hand, there was no doubt in that, as so-called _friends_  weren't there whispering for him to live, that he'd managed to somewhat listen to throughout the years.

All of it had crumbled…but John… _he didn't know._

From this agony John would be truly spared, believing perhaps in the ridiculous story his brother would concoct upon his death. Here it was, waiting ahead of him with such a great allure that he could not consider any other option. He rolled onto his back on the ground, opening his mouth to taste the bitter rainwater, promptly licking at his chapped lips.

Desire continued to drive him, the dark creature that spun in his mind, compelling him ahead to his own destruction, applauding. Somehow he felt like a distant set of eyes watched him, seeing his trembling hands fish out the remnants of his drugs from the inner pocket of his dishevelled coat, almost making him stop.

Everything narrowed down to this moment, his blood flooding through his veins, his heart thumping loudly, all of his thoughts disintegrating into this one…one thought –  _just one more…one more…_

That was when Sherlock Holmes died.

* * *

_**Miracle:** _ _such an effect or event manifesting or considered as a work of God._

* * *

" _Is he awake?"_

" _Coming to, I think. God is on his side."_

" _I don't think anyone is on his side."_

He heard a wooden chair scrape against stone floors, one of the chairs legs almost loose, halting at his left side, "It is strange how you assume you are one to bestow judgement." The old man's voice was soft, the language familiar, yet – he knew it – it was on the tip of his tongue.

Heavy garments were being worn, he heard it from the movement of the younger man, "I apologise father Francis, but this man blasphemed upon his arrival."  _Obvious._

"Who would not in the state he was found?" said Francis, "One would curse one's mother in any tongue if one is at the depths of despair, like I believe this man was, and still is."

Sherlock took a steadying breath, resolving to find the barest hint of patience left in him, his body taut and heavy against the abrasive fabric of his bed, grating upon his heated flesh. Already he knew where he was, he'd heard about the monastery from the locals talking amongst themselves drinking and intending to absolve their guilt the next day with a confession of their sins.

Instead of dreamless sleep, he found himself awakening to face the Samaritans who had taken him. "Oh God," he moaned, averting his rolling eyes from their gaze, attempting to sit upright in the bed, failing as his body was broken by shivers.

It was the closest to an infirmary he would find in these parts, other sickly men occupying beds with thick white sheets, some of them wailing, others of an eerie silence that he recognized.

These would-be-Samaritans, their pledge, their cloth compelling them to save him when he did not want to be saved "Stay…you must regain your strength my friend," said father Francis, lingering by his bed, his greying hair and deep wrinkles hard to see, causing Sherlock to blink furiously at the man, tears dispersing themselves from his eyes, not out of relief but out of withdrawal, "Your addiction nearly killed you."

"Nearly is the-," he began, though cobwebs in his throat made the words crumble. Neither did clearing his throat soothe the present obstruction.

"You have also caught a cold," said Francis, his dimples showing, as he patted his arm seeming pleased by this development.

"I would not be surprised if he hasn't caught something else Father Francis," said the younger monk, forcing Sherlock to look at the round-faced boy who stood behind the older monk with an exasperated mien. Cleary he was an unwanted patient, or by the sullen expression on the boy, somewhat of a  _memento_. He wanted to snap out his deduction, to point out the boy's slow speech and visible shivers, but he did not have the vigour to do so, forced to stay mute.

Francis arched a playful brow on his behalf, as if the man's thoughts turned in that corner, but he doubted it, "My apologies – where are my manners? Augustus has just reminded me to introduce myself properly, for I assume you are a gentleman? I am old – I forget – I am father Francis and he is Augustus, of course. Your name sir, is however, a mystery to our modest monastery-," a hand held against his breast, his speech said with such mirth that Sherlock felt the undeniable upturn of his mouth.

This man was no ordinary monk, from the way others moved around silently, all of them observing, listening intently, it was easy to see that he was the elder, and also the one who chiefly ruled over the others (with the exception of their  _invisible force_ ). Not a village idiot, nor a fool of any kind, but a learned man. Somehow this made him even more annoyed, he could see by the rough hands of the man that there were scars from scientific equipment. Here was a man he could somewhat consider equal, yet a believer of ancient scrolls penned by men who wished power, more than anything else.

_Dull._

Obviously he had a secret, which he knew that the man would unburden if he asked for it. He fought to speak once more, concentrating to make his voice audible, until he sunk into his pillow realising the strain it was causing, "Ah! Our presence has weakened you; perhaps, we shall let you rest some more? It will do you good I think…come – come Augustus – let us not trouble him, perhaps he is our esteemed writer? I know an Englishman when I see one, you know." He spoke with an undeniable twinkle in his eyes, making Sherlock grimace.

Francis leapt off his seat with far less effort than Sherlock would have surmised, his steely blue eyes staying on the man followed by Augustus, who scoffed at the mention of  _the writer._

* * *

_Withdrawal._ It wasn't a pleasant experience, but he recognised the symptoms despite his disinclination to avoid the inducement. Anxiety luckily did not take place, though chiefly it had burdened him the most in his earlier years, as if that was surprising. Youth brought doubts, and those he bore no longer, except in those few spare seconds he had thought…he had  _meddled_  with Miss Adler. Coughing soundly in his bed, he lay chiefly ignored by the other monks who seemed to all share Augustus' festering annoyance. He didn't mind, allowing himself to sweat it out, barely touching the dry scraps of bread they pushed on him, "Water," he mumbled, his throat aching.

"Demands already?" Francis' voice said, appearing by his bedside with a freshly filled goblet, "You are feeling better, I gather it – care to give us your name?"

Taking the goblet grudgingly from the older man's wrinkly hands, he muttered a name, before taking a generous sip, causing Francis' brows to knit together.

"Not a name –  _your_  name," he said.

He pursed his lips, unburdening himself of the goblet, which the monk took from him, "Sherlock Holmes."

"Pity," said Francis, causing him to frown in return.

"Sorry?"

"Not important… _Sherlock_  – it is the name you give yourself, then?" said Francis.

"No less than you gave yourself yours -  _father_."

"Ah! You will be a most amusing guest."

"If this is what you consider hospitability then it is appalling."

Francis did not seem at all unsettled by his words, merrily shrugging lightly at them, "Then you are welcome to leave, Mr Holmes. No one is keeping you here."

The second he sat upright, blood rushed too quickly to his head, and he emitted a groan, "Or perhaps they are," said Francis quietly with a smile.

* * *

For days he had been there, restless and bored beyond belief. No rest to be found in his bed, or in his mind, as such he could not stay there too long without being interrupted with his body succumbing to the pain. His insides  _itched_ ; sweat pouring out of him, his body constantly shuddering. The turn of paper distracted him now, sounding like the beat of a drum in his head, all of his senses heightened painfully, "What – are – you – reading?" he said with gritted teeth, his eyes narrowed at the man he considered his captor who briefly looked at him.

"A story."

"Isn't the bible filled with stories, each as unconvincing as the rest – with apples and talking snakes?" he spat, he saw in the reflection of the man's grey eyes – his weary body. Sherlock deflected his gaze, steadying it on the brick walls instead.

Francis chose once more to ignore him, a thing he constantly did effortlessly unlike the others who would leave him instantly at any condescending word, for now he had fully regained his speech, allowing him to spit out his venom, but unable to move freely, "It is a boy who is talking about his dead mother," said Francis, eyes still on the page.

He snorted, raising a brow at the man, "So? Everybody dies."

The monk smiled to his displeasure, his green eyes staying on him with clear intrigue, "So – _he_  – says."

"What?" he said, trying to disguise his surprise, though Francis had already caught on, taking to peruse the pages, which were worn already, clearly frequently studied.

"He says – and I quote –  _It is selfish to wish for my mother to return, for it is only for my own sake I wish her here, not considering that she might like the quiet_ … _for everyone dies_. There is  _no one who is able to escape death."_

Puzzled, he tried to understand how a mere child could be credited to those words, dripping of bitterness in someone so young, but he quickly realised –  _death does that to us all._

"You read that and you call yourself a man of God?" he said, with the smallest of laughs, disguising his curiosity. He was certain that if he were given the piece of religious tripe, he would manage to find out the whereabouts of the child, but he still wondered why a French monk would at all be interested in an English child's lack of faith.

"See –  _the cover_  - " he held out the religious leaflet, with a slight smile grazing his long face, " – death is beyond even God's control." Sherlock touched the pages, letting go of it quickly, to dissuade Francis into assuming he would have him  _converted_  in any way or the other.

* * *

"Why are you _still_  reading that?"

"You can see the same things every day, yet look at them with fresh eyes – shall I read to you?"

"No."

" _I often wished that everyone who braved death's door willingly died instead of her, of how she had not done anything to harm, to hurt, yet she still died_."

He was counting the amount of bricks before him, letting the mundane task take over in his head, but the words still flowed through, "He sounds more sensible than you," he said carefully, his eyes flickering to Francis who chuckled in return.

"I suppose he is," he said diving into the pages of the leaflet once more, apparently seeking some explanation he would never find.

* * *

"I am better," he said maddened.

Francis did not even give him a proper appraisal, continuing to walk past him, yet halting nonetheless, "Are you?"

"Why do you care?" he said with a clear whine in his voice, reminded of John's idiotic tactics to make him feel anything resembling guilt.

"Why do you not?" said Francis with a significant look, walking away, before he could give a well-thought reply dripping with the deduction he was building up against the man.

* * *

He could not account for why he'd done it, or the astonishing strength he'd found in attempting it, but in his hands he possessed the beloved volume. Ripping it to pieces was his plan, simple but effective – to force the man to let him be, yet his hand stayed with the pieces of flimsy paper stuck between them. And for the first time in many years, Sherlock read, immersing himself in the words of someone who he felt, despite himself – alike - only to find himself agreeing with the finishing words that the essay slowly build towards, " _I will live."_

The low candlelight was burning out, the words plunging into the darkness, as he drew for breath amongst a room filled with strangers.

* * *

Sunlight poured down on him, re-awakening his body, though his mind was otherwise engaged, " _She_  is not an idiot," he snapped the pamphlet shut, holding it out to Francis who looked at him mildly bewildered. For once the man seemed to be at a loss.

"She?"

"It's a girl! Easily seen by the use of words, the prose - excessive explanation of feelings - odd that you called her a boy, but the signature M. Hooper can be deceiving, the curves in the signature are feminine as well. Taken here by an English missionary – commonly found in England, dispersed in a small community – obviously not intended to _seed_  doubt in your faith, but she has – approximately one year ago. This girl is young,  _far_  too young, yet you're interested – because –  _because_ \- you had a son – ah – sentiment – the old crux."

"And you are not?"

He sighed, glaring in return, "Some sentimental dribble about loss is not about to change me."

"Yet this is the fourth time you've read it."

"Guessing doesn't suit you… _it's six_ ," he said with a tiny smirk, groaning slightly against the twinges of pain streaming through his body, "She knows how to write – a good enough education, but one always tends to grow older when one loses someone – explaining her...way of writing…I suspect John has turned grey by now, though I hope he hasn't inflicted his pain upon the outside word. His prose is horrendous!"

* * *

Francis stared at him, a serious expression on his otherwise humorous face, while they walked outside the monastery. Somehow his last days there, he had been so very unlike himself, he had found himself speaking out all of his aggravation, letting it be known to the man –  _a confession_  – Francis christened it, though chiefly he considered it openly deducing his thoughts regarding  _Moriarty_. The man was still out there, somewhere, but it was the letter that gave him the thought –  _"or maybe he was no man…but a boy."_  Now he was finally leaving, intending to return home, ending his own banishment, "When you get back you must thank this Miss Hooper," said Francis, making him stare at him in surprise.

"Thank _Miss Hooper_? Why would I want to meet her? She's only a child."

Francis laughed freely stopping at the stony gate, forcing Sherlock to stand in front of him with a crease in his brows, "You have been whispering her words like a prayer in your sleep my friend, perhaps the most honest you've ever been...and years have passed for that  _girl_  as well…"

Sherlock cleared his throat grimacing, "Well, Francis – I hope I won't see you again," he said, ignoring the man's words taking to shake his hand firmly with a smile.

The monk nodded, "Oh, but I believe we will one day Mr Holmes, I believe one day we will," emotion heavy in the man's voice, and Sherlock did feel a sharp sting when his last letters to Francis came unanswered, revealing to him the other deduction he had so willingly overlooked - the man's age.

* * *

_**Eleven years later** _

* * *

She intended to spare the reading for later, yet still she read it, this letter from the past, hands digging into the paper.

_1963, September 21_

_Francis,_

_You will most likely be pleased by the news that I have met your esteemed authoress. It was an unintentional meeting due to my case, of which we have both spoken about already. I need not delve into the particulars under the circumstances, as this letter could easily be intercepted._

_You are most likely speculating as to how I know it is her who wrote the piece you gave to me. Firstly she was late to class. I was given the time to look over the call sheet, reciting the long list of names, which presented me with a M. Hooper who was late._

_I was somewhat taken aback by this, despite having some foreknowledge that this particular area had indeed spurned the_ _**religious artefact** _ _you held on to. Secondly she spoke back. She challenged me, instead of stifling in her seat like I had suspected she would. Of course I might have set out a trap just to see that she had the fortitude her words gave way to, but she did indeed walk into the challenge. Bravery is in some sense a new kind of stupid, don't you agree? I assume you don't. Thirdly, and most importantly – I do not know how I will ever be able to thank her…_

"Miss Hooper, Molly Hooper?" said a young man, disrupting her reading, forcing her to fold the letter back into its respective envelope with a tight smile. She had hoped for a few minutes at least, but he was more prompt than she expected.

"Yes – yes – that's me," she said brightly, standing up from her chair, and shaking hands with the journalist by the name of Lucas who soon settled down opposite her.

"Thank you for seeing me," he said grinning, while she nodded in return, clearing away the letter that he eyed curiously.

The café was crammed to her liking, though the nerves of the journalist were much higher than she imagined, as he'd given the impression on the phone that he was a far more senior journalist than he looked. She did not care in the slightest, giving him encouraging smiles, while he fumbled with his notepad, clearing his throat, "Miss Hooper – we are here to talk about your new book, of course, as everyone's curious to see what you and Doctor Watson have been up to-,"

"It's not a biography," she said giggling.

"Unlike Doctor Watson's own books?" he said, clearly wanting to speak of Sherlock Holmes.

She did falter for a second, but kept her brown gaze steady and said, "Unlike his - yes, though those are coming to an end as well. Not many more cases to go on anymore…"

"Sherlock Holmes was your professor for a while wasn't he?"

Molly frowned, knowing immediately where this was heading, "Yes-," she started, hand grasping her cup of coffee harder than she intended, releasing her grip when she saw what she was doing.

"I'm just wondering, I'm sorry I'm asking - but is  _he_  the inspiration for your first published work?"

Like always she gave the tiny snort, and the pursed lips, "No, not at all, though I do love people speculating that it is, but certainly John doesn't." She hid her mouth behind her cup, watching the disappointment appear on the man's face.

"Would you care to tell me who was?"

Putting down the cup she said calmly, "It wasn't ever supposed to be read-,"

Lucas soon began rifling through his notepad, before looking up at her with much more confidence, "Yes – your father published it in your behalf under the alias  _M. Hooper_  – after he became aware you'd written something else for a religious paper when you were very young?"

"Yes, yes he did," she said with a brief smile, "Though it turned out he'd read that piece not long after my mum died, kept it to himself though, but he was the one who handed me the copy of my first book, yes." Rambling always happened despite herself, hoping the _topic_  could be avoided.

"Now – everyone knows how the story ends, and to tell you the truth – I'm surprised that you, while so _young-,"_ she raised a brow, awaiting the ' _being_  a  _woman_ '-bit to appear any time soon "- wrote such an ending, since you'd think it would be happy."

She bit her lip thoughtfully, before she said, "I didn't choose the ending – Lucas – if you don't mind me calling-,"

"No – not at all!" he said laughing, gesturing for her to go on.

She grinned, the brightness of her smile, however, slowly fading, "The thing is Lucas, I didn't choose the ending – the ending chose me…"

He looked at her for a moment, clearly dumbfounded, but she didn't feel like giving him a more elaborate answer than that, certainly not the truth, which wasn't an option.

* * *

Answering his other questions proved to be no problem whatsoever, unlike what Mike had first probed her with, as this was her first public appearance as the author  _M. Hooper_  – who for years – people assumed was man. A fact she didn't feel like correcting anyone about, for it had kept her privacy, but it had been her ex-fiancé who had ousted her identity to her immense displeasure. Though that wasn't the only reason as to why she had ended their engagement, despite all of their mutual friends hoping she would settle. It wasn't something she liked, the word that was – _settling_  – and it truly felt like she was doing so by intending to marry Tom. She did not know if she would make him happy in the end, for he barely made her so.

"Are you ready?" asked Mike, dragging her mind to her present situation, the car getting closer to the bookshop that was strewn with people waiting to buy her new book.

"No," she said with a hint of a pout, "No, I'm not-,"

"It isn't Tom, is it?" said Mike looking at her rather worried, like he constantly did when he was with her these days. Unmarried was a concept very few seemed to cope with, despite the burning of bras and the path of  _free love_. But Molly reluctantly admitted that whatever time or place she would find herself in, people still frowned upon the idea of spinsters in any form or shape, though she didn't fear the idea, unlike previously. There was certainly some charm to the idea of being the old mad lady with her cats, though she was certainly not old yet, and only a tiny bit mad.

"No, no it's not Tom," she said with a laugh, "I've moved on, you know, so no problem there."

Mike raised his brows at her in return, being her agent had prompted him to keep his mouth shut, but today he seemed keen on letting his mouth loose for once, "Be difficult not to… you broke it off."

In some ways he reminded her of her father, rather too much for her liking, "We didn't fit-," she tried to explain, gesturing with her hands, hoping he'd let the subject drop, and she was allowed to think of the letters in her purse instead. The ones she never thought she'd ever see, except John had found them – revealing to her all of the letters that had been returned to Baker Street unopened. He'd hesitated giving them to her, but she had persuaded him otherwise, though it did not wholly look good when she ended her engagement with Tom not long after.

"I just don't want to see you alone, that's all."

She sighed, staring out of the window of the car, watching the passing buildings, "I'm fine… I promise – and alone is nice, you know-,"

"Better than what you said last time, I'll say," said Mike chortling properly, while she shook her head glaring at him in return.

"Shut it," she said, "I was a  _bit_  dramatic-,"

"A bit?  _Alone protects me_?"

Molly shook her head, "Mike, I just – it was the day dad-," she drew for breath smiling briefly, her eyes stinging. First her father had been taken from her, and not long after her grandmother. She bore no ill will towards their passing, for it had been natural causes, and she had been given the chance to say goodbye. Truth be told, the words bore truth, and in some ways being alone didn't harm one. Anyway, she was never really alone, given the title of  _auntie_  by John's and Mary's children, and surrounding herself with her work at St. Bart's.

"Sorry, sorry, I should've remembered, but you don't like – you just never tell me these things…" said Mike, looking wounded for a moment.

"I just don't want to bother you, it's not your job-,"

"My job is to look out for you, and I for one think you need someone like that – don't you?"

Instead of answering, she just nodded, letting the rest of the drive to the bookshop continue on quietly, while her nails dug into her purse.

* * *

_**Sir by M. Hooper –** _

He would have loathed the title, truth be told, so did she, as it felt like a joke she wasn't allowed to laugh at anymore -  _"The phenomenal first novel penned by M. Hooper has struck at the heart of the country…"_  The papers had all thought she was a man, like her school had when she'd applied to it, and it had been amusing. Her outing of course corrected their presumptions, and to some reviewers her previous brilliant work was reduced to  _schoolgirl fancies_.

Perhaps she had just been a young woman at the time, but she did not believe her feelings were any less real. Never had she intended for those feelings to be viewed by the general public, her father picking up the manuscript when she moved out to live closer to her university. And not once had he judged her, only handing her the first printed copy with a whispered, " _It's brilliant."_

She did cry that day, unable to stop it, and the pair of them had been astonished when the book reached some level of acclaim. It was just a story, or so she constantly had to remind herself, changed and altered into a compelling plot, with the  _tragic_  ending still in place. Somehow having it in the printed word made it seem further from her, like it truly was something she had imagined.

Often enough she'd find herself wishing she had, since then she would probably be married to Tom, but she suspected that other obstacles would still be thrown into their path. He just hadn't been the right one. No matter how hard she'd tried to fit him into her life, it hadn't seemed at all possible.

Tom had never understood her work, or her want to write the silly stories as she did. They weren't silly exactly, all of them based on cases she'd assisted John Watson in, a man too fond of adrenaline-kicks than one would suspect.

And it wasn't before all of these books started to gain a truly large following that Tom had unceremoniously put her name out to be acknowledged, for only when she was loved by the public did he seem to take pride of her achievements. Unlike everyone else John was the only one who seemed truly relieved when she'd broken it off, "He just…he didn't look right," he'd said after she'd told him, giving her a bit of an odd look, which she ignored.

In some ways it was good everyone knew she was the one who had written the books, but the myriad of letters she'd received from young girls did in some ways startle her. She was certainly not encouraging this sort of behaviour, though she understood some of them, most of them wishing for that type of…"Well – we're here," said Mike, breaking up her thoughts once more, as she stared out on the pavement, her eyes widening at the sight of the people queuing outside of the shop.

"Are they here for me?" she said wrinkling her nose.

"Yes – they are," he said with a slight wink, opening the car door, holding it open for her.

It was something different seeing all of the different people's faces, some of them clutching her books to their chests, their faces lighting up when they spotted her. They were her readers, a curious thought which she found exhilarating, though terrifying as well. She was neither elegant nor worldly. In all essence she was still that same girl, still reading her books and doing her best to keep up with the growing world around her.

Praise wasn't something she coped well with, her mouth quirking upwards awkwardly at the books given to her by shaky hands of people who wanted her to sign her loopy signature, defiling the pristine copy. She felt like constantly asking, "Do you really want me to sign it?" But the way they all seemed to enthusiastically put their books on the table she occupied was answer enough. Quite often ' _Sir'_  would appear at her desk, which wasn't supposed to be signed, but she did nonetheless, taking the praise with as much grace as she could, "Will there be another book like this? Since you've got the other series and all?" a young woman asked.

"No, it's just this one – some stories need to end," she said, her words heavier with meaning than she intended, but the young woman thanked her for the copy, before mutedly walking away.

"The ending was absolutely heart-wrenching," another said, sniffling as he walked off, "But beautiful."

 _There's beauty in tragedy,_ she'd read that somewhere, she didn't remember where, but it was true.

Her hand had begun to cramp, though blessedly the line was turning shorter, the mild banter diminishing, as it grew darker outside.

Another copy of  _Sir_  landed on the desk, her brown eyes turning to it wearily, the gloved hand that dropped it on the counter slipping away, the man's hands folded at his front.

She splayed open the book to the first page, it was a much more worn copy that she'd seen, almost falling apart, a brief smile playing at her lips, "What name should I put?" she said automatically, hiding her yawn rather poorly, as sleep prodded at her eyelids.

" _Sir_."

Her pen had begun to write, stilling when she understood, almost dropping the pen with shaking fingers, "Sorry?" she said swallowing. Now she was imaging things, her mind having surely leapt off into some fantasy, but she did not dare look up, for it would certainly break the spell the voice now had over her. It was dark, rich and velvet, so familiar with such a word; she knew not what to think.

"Sir," the man enunciated slowly.

Heart beating frantically, she tried too soothe her nerves, trying to calm them down, "That's not a name," she said carefully, allowing her eyes to shut, as her hand clung tightly around the pen still hovering above the page.

Neither spoke, her mind reeling, wondering if she had truly gone mad, holding her breath, until finally, "I agree," he said with a tone, amusement laden in his voice.

His words brought her eyes up, causing them to widen, her pink mouth gaping soundly at the sight of his soft smile.

For the first time in a long time, Molly Hooper was at a loss for words.

**THE END**


End file.
